The Record of the Saints Caliber Page 20

  With a sigh Brandrir turned around. The old man, Coinmaster Rankin Parvailes, still sat at his corner of the table looking up at him, still awaiting answers. Dagrir stood at the head of the table near that daunting stack of papers, smirking at him. Brandrir grimaced, more over his brother’s appearance than of the stack of papers this time. Dagrir, like most of the Northern Guard and even his father the King, wore black armor that in recent generations had come to replace the red of Duroton.

  “The Council convenes in fifteen minutes and this stack will only get larger,” Dagrir said. Brandrir could tell his brother was taking great delight in torturing him with all the politics of the castle. “You may look more political than I in that red armor and fancy cape of yours, but I can assure you the Council isn’t flattered by appearances.”

  Brandrir found it impossible to be angry with his brother, and seeing him with that ridiculous smirk on his face only made him chuckle. Brandrir smiled and shook his head. “You might want to try wearing the red of old,” said Brandrir. He smiled slyly. “When I am King, it will again be required.”

  Black armor replacing Duroton Red had started with their great-great-grandfather, Hemodar of the Blackwall, who ruled during the years of the great famines. After four years of bad harvests brought on by exceptionally cold summers, much of the kingdom was desperate for food. Hemodar sought to secure aid from the neighboring kingdom of Narbereth. It had been a thousand years since Duroton had ever conversed with another kingdom, and seeking a chance to meet with the King of the North and holder of the broken Mard Grander—an artifact that none outside Duroton had seen in nearly a thousand years—the Narberethan King agreed to have the historic conference with Duroton.

  Unfortunately, Sanctuary got involved before the meeting could happen. By the laws and pacts governing the rest of the world, unless Duroton would embrace Sanctuary, a meeting with Narbereth or any other kingdom was strictly forbidden. To this Hemodar also conceded. Hemodar had felt it was time for Duroton to join with the rest of the world.

  Unfortunately for Hemodar, the choice was not entirely his. Though he was King, Duroton was also ruled by a congress of delegates representing all of the largest cities in the kingdom. By a narrow margin the vote was against embracing Sanctuary. The people had seemingly spoken, and they wanted to uphold the ways of old rather than bow to the corruption that had engulfed the rest of the world. They wanted to uphold all that the Mard Grander—as broken as that hammer was—stood for.

  Hemodar was outraged by this and warned the congress that they had made a grave mistake and that thousands would die due to their stubborn adherence to the pacts of old. As far as Hemodar was concerned, the Mard Grander was a broken and useless symbol of a bygone age that only brought Duroton suffering. Legends said that the mighty hammer had been gifted to the people of Duroton by the Great Gods as a symbol of their righteousness. It was a symbol that Duroton stood apart from the rest of the world; that they had been entrusted as the stewards of freedom and liberty.

  But the hammer was broken long ago, during the Age of the Great Falling when King Tharick wielded it against Apollyon. And to Hemodar, the broken hammer only stood for Duroton’s continued plight against the Kald. Legends said that the Mard Grander was the only weapon powerful enough to break the chains that bound the terrible beast known as the Kaldenthrax to the Abyss. For a thousand years the Kald sought a way to take the Mard Grander for themselves and unleash their terrifying god upon the world, and for a thousand years Duroton protected the weapon.

  As far as Hemodar was concerned, the Mard Grander was nothing more than a symbol of their constant battles against the Kald. He thought it was time to abandon the ways of old, and in protest he had torches lit all around the castle walls. He ordered one torch to burn for every man, woman or child who died of starvation due to the congress’s vote. That year famine and plague ravaged the kingdom and thousands of torches burned all around the outside of the castle, day and night. A tapestry still hung in the throne room that depicted a scene of a hundred-thousand and more torches burning like wildfire outside the castle. The smoke from these torches stained the walls and towers of the castle black, and eventually Hemodar became known as Hemodar of the Blackwall. He began wearing black armor rather than red. He ordered all the Northern Guard to paint their red armor black as well, initially to be only for a year of mourning, but the color stuck and to this day black armor replaced the red of old.

  The following year the rains returned and slowly prosperity came back to the lands, but neither King Hemodar nor the people of Duroton ever forgot of the countless dead. Hemodar turned all the blame to the congress, and in latter years delegates were elected who were more and more inclined to abandon the ways of old. The congress slowly transformed from delegates of the people, to the council it was today; a council appointed only by the nobles of the lands. More and more there was talk of joining with Sanctuary and the rest of the kingdoms of the world.

  Brandrir knew that it was only by the powerful will of the Jinn and the Knights of the Dark Stars that this had not happened already. They hated the Saints and refused any thought of joining with Sanctuary. Even his father, King Garidrir, feared angering the Jinn. For this Brandrir was thankful. Once Brandrir found himself sitting upon the throne he secretly vowed to restore a congress of the people and disband the Council.

  “You spent far too much time listening to Etheil’s stories when you were a boy, and far too little time with father and the Council.” said Dagrir, snapping Brandrir from his reverie. “I can assure you that once you are King the color of ones’ armor will be the least of your worries.” Dagrir smiled as he tapped his finger on the large stack of papers.

  Brandrir looked at the stack and breathed deep. Maybe Dagrir was right? Maybe he had spent far too much time listening to Etheil and his tales and legends of the ages past. He looked down at the Icelander’s parchment on the table and a single word suddenly stood out to him. There was nothing especially peculiar about the word. It was as sloppily written and misspelled as the rest of the document—perhaps even the most misspelled word on the page—but it was a word that held significance with him. The word was ‘honor’ and he could make it out clearly even in its mangled form. He read the entire line.

  By the Akords of Old we entreet you to up held the onhor that you are bownd to.

  Brandrir nodded his head silently and chewed his bottom lip. He turned to Coinmaster Parvailes and said, “Send payment to the Icelanders. Last year’s, this year’s, and pay them next year’s as amends for our delays.”

  “Brother,” began Dagrir, exhaling deeply. “We simply cannot keep these accords honored any longer. The Icelanders literally swim in our gold. They have no use for the money. They’re barbarians. If we simply explain to them—”

  “Were the Accords signed beneath the Duroton sky?” asked Brandrir. He looked at Dagrir. His brother just stood and shook his head slightly. Then he threw up his hands and looked to Parvailes.

  “I’m sure they were,” said Rankin Parvailes from across the room. “All treaties must be signed beneath the Duroton sky so that the Lands take witness.”

  “Then we pay.” stated Brandrir simply.

  “And where exactly are we getting three-hundred thousand phoenix from?” protested Dagrir, suddenly taking on a more indignant tone. “It’s due time that we—”

  “Take it from the Grimwatch,” said Brandrir, holding up his mechanical hand to silence Dagrir as he spoke to Parvailes.

  “If I may be so bold to object, sire,” said Parvailes. “That account has but eight-hundred thousand phoenix and is already running at a two-hundred thousand coin deficit for the year. This will bring the deficit to half a million phoenix, all of which we’ll have to acquire before the end of the year.”

  “That’s fine,” said Brandrir. “I shall explain to my men at the Grimwatch the situation. For the honor of upholding the Ageless Accords that were signed beneath the Duroton sky, I’m certain they will all agree to mak
e sacrifices.”

  Dagrir sighed and pinched at his forehead. “Brother,” he said, and then exhaled loudly. “We can’t…you can’t just move money and run deficits…you…we can’t pay three years reparations to the barbarians. It’s…we just…you can’t just do that.” Dagrir looked at Parvailes and said. “Send them last year’s payment and a proclamation. We’re ending the Ageless Accords. To date they have received over nine-million phoenix. They can consider themselves redressed for the Crashingstones.”

  “No,” said Brandrir, looking his brother square in the eyes. “No.” He turned back to Parvailes. “All three years. We do not break the Ageless Accords.”

  Dagrir shook his head. “We can no longer afford—”

  Brandrir slammed his mechanical hand upon the table, splintering the wood. He looked up at his brother and could feel his face warm and flush with anger. “Duroton does not go back on its word!” He turned to Parvailes, pointing a mechanical finger at the old man. “Three years pay. Send a ship with it tonight.”

  Parvailes looked at Dagrir and the two seemed to exchange some sort of unspoken communication with their eyes. That only set Brandrir off further. “Tonight!” he roared, slamming his mechanical fist upon the table once more. “Duroton honors its word!”

  Parvailes shook his head and began scrawling something in one of his ledgers. Dagrir stood looking at Brandrir in silence, lips pursed and head wagging. He was about to speak when the door squeaked open and a procession of finely dressed men entered, smiling and chatting amongst themselves.

  Six men filed in, one after another, each in colorful doublets trimmed with gold or some other similarly lavish fabric. Some held ledgers in their hands, others carried various rolled scrolls beneath their arms. Brandrir knew these men, if by not much more than name. They were true politicians. They were the current congress—the King’s Council—but they were not of any congress like the ones of old. These men were supposed to represent the people of Duroton, but in reality represented budgets and taxes and the wants and needs of the nobles who appointed them all.

  Nobles, thought Brandrir to himself, huffing out loud at the thought. That was another recent intrusion from the southern realms into Duroton. Brandrir had often heard that the southern kingdoms believed that some men were born superior; born of higher blood than others. In some of the kingdoms the highest nobility were granted special titles—the Exalted, they were known as. Mostly sons and daughters of Kings, the Exalted held almost godlike powers over anybody they came across, even within other kingdoms. It was ridiculous. The entire idea of nobility seemed ludicrous to Brandrir and he found it hard to believe that in the southern kingdoms men bowed before nobles for no reason other than the title alone.

  Brandrir looked at his mechanical arm and balled its hand into a fist. Respect should be earned, not granted, he thought. Ending the idea of “nobility” would be high on the agenda once he took the throne.

  The councilmen finished filing into the room. They laughed and chattered amongst themselves until a few began taking notice of Brandrir’s presence.

  “Brandrir!” said one of the men, lighting up at his sight. Brandrir knew him as Balin Yagdril. He was dressed in a bright yellow doublet ribbed with silver and similarly elaborate britches. He had brown eyes and a long thin mustache and a beard as sharp as his politicking. He held a bundle of scrolls under his arm. “You’ve decided to join us, have you? Will you be heading the council table today in Dagrir’s stead?”

  “He will,” said Dagrir and acrimoniously pulled the head chair out from the table. “Being as after tomorrow’s ceremony he will be King, I suppose it’s past time he learns how to head a council.” He extended a hand. “Please brother, take your seat and perhaps we can begin by telling the council what your first order of business has been?”

  “Oh, well this sounds sour,” remarked Balin. Balin represented the Council of Nobles and represented the lands and titles of people throughout the kingdom. Brandrir looked at the bundle of scrolls the man held with some disdain. No doubt they were requests for entitlements sought by those he was representing. “Perhaps we should begin on a lighter note. Councilman Sigrund has some pleasant news this morning.”

  “That I do,” said Jord Sigrund. He was an immensely rotund man dressed in velvety copper fabric that draped loosely about his bulk. He always wore a silver coif—something that had come to represent the Council of Taxation—and it perfectly matched his hair and eyes. Jord had sat on the council for forty years and was the most seasoned of all the Councilmen after Parvailes.

  “If it has anything to do with the three-hundred thousand phoenix worth of gems hauled from the Yotun Mines, our grace here has already managed to spend it.” said Parvailes. He looked at Brandrir sourly from beneath his bushy gray brows.

  Jord started at this, his cheeks and neck bobbing as he looked at Brandrir, quite stunned.

  “Let us properly convene council,” said Dagrir to Jord. “Let us come to order beneath the Duroton sky.” he said more loudly.

  The mumblings and murmurs subsided as the council members took their chairs. Brandrir scowled as he dragged himself and his seat closer to the table. Only Dagrir remained standing, as was customary for the Standing Speaker. It was the highest position in the council next to the King, or Regent King in Brandrir’s case. Usually Dagrir sat in the King’s seat and Balin acted as Speaker. But with Brandrir back the seats had to be rearranged slightly.

  “The King’s Council is now convened,” said Dagrir loudly as he shut the door to the chamber and took up a position just behind Brandrir’s seat. “If any would not speak beneath the Duroton sky, let him be excused so that the Lands take no heed.” Dagrir paused for the briefest of moments, then continued. “At High Seat today is Regent King Brandrir Thorodin, son of Duroton. And, I might add, that after tomorrow, he will be our Standing King.”

  Brandrir smiled. The Councilmen all had dull faces. There was some frivolous clapping from a couple, but for the most part not a single one looked up from their books and papers.

  Dagrir slapped his brother on the shoulder, his hand clanking loudly on his pauldron. He continued. “I, Dagrir Thorodin, Demi-regent King—Regent King after tomorrow—shall act as Standing Speaker. Rankin Parvailes, Coinmaster and Council of Records, shall be Recorder of Council.” Dagrir exhaled deeply. “Before we get down to business, let us quickly move through formalities. We have Balin Yagdril, Council of Nobles; Jord Sigrund, Council of Collections and Taxes; Baldir Bjort, Council of Agriculture; Gefjon Jolori, Council of Jurisprudence; Aldur Ilmarinen, Council of Foreign Affairs; Hymnar Ragnir, Council of Domestic Affairs; and, as you know, myself and Brandrir are Council of Rule and War. Let us come to order for the Lands of Duroton.”

  “For the Lands of Duroton,” repeated Brandrir and the council in unison.

  Brandrir inhaled deeply as his brother began speaking. He looked down at the table, rubbing his eyes and holding his head as Dagrir briefed the Council on the agenda. He looked out the window as Dagrir began in about his recent decision to pay the Icelanders three-years worth of reparations. He was vaguely aware of the chuckles from the Councilmen, but he was already becoming lost in his own thoughts.

  From his seat he could see the outer wall of the castle where the massive sections of brick and stone had been toppled. His mind drifted to that fateful night seventeen years ago. How the castle shook at its very foundations. The screams of men drifting through the night sky. The Kald as they flitted through the bedroom window, towering over him with those hateful eyes, and how they knocked him to the floor. Brandrir grit his teeth. He could still feel the icy foot on him; still hear his mother’s screams; see the Kald tearing at her nightgown. And then Dagrir’s scream, the most bloodcurdling of all.

  Brandrir’s right hand began stroking the cold, metal shell of his left arm. He looked down at the thing and inhaled deeply, the weight of the tank upon his back felt heavier now and he was aware again of its warmth that radiated even through his
armor. He looked at his metallic fingers, each one clacking upon his palm as he balled them into a fist, the tank on his back releasing a quiet hiss.

  Dagrir’s harsh voice suddenly ripped Brandrir from his thoughts. He looked up at his brother who was standing there, staring at him with his dark, piercing eyes. But all Brandrir could see right now were those scars on his neck. The pink, raised scars of ruined flesh from where the Kald had wrapped their icy fingers around his neck.

  “Councilman Jord has asked you a question, brother.” repeated Dagrir. “Perhaps there is something more pressing on your mind right now that you’d like to share?”

  Brandrir shook his head of any last distracting thoughts and clenched and unclenched his metallic fist a few times, causing the tank on his back to release a number of hisses. “No, I’m sorry,” said Brandrir. His eyes somehow drifted away from Dagrir and to the stack of papers next to him. He looked down the long table and at the rolled scrolls before each of the councilmen. “Um…I’m sorry, what was the question?”

  Dagrir exhaled deeply. “Councilman Jord had asked if we can hold off the reparations payment and divert the money to—”

  “No,” said Brandrir firmly. “Next matter of business.” Down either side of the long table Brandrir could see all the councilmen looking at each other in stunned silence. Some raising eyebrows and then looking away, others biting their lips and shaking their heads.

  “Next matter indeed,” muttered Dagrir. He sighed heavily. “Councilman Baldir, I believe you have the matter of military provisions to discuss?”

  “Yes, sire,” said Baldir. “With spring here it is now time to discuss the matter of food stores for the Northern Guard and for the Grimwatch. Last year we devoted a sixth of our croplands to rye for dry stores, but as I understand there will be an increase in men at the Grimwatch. I recommend we plan to increase stores for the winter.” Here Baldir stood up and unfurled his long parchment upon the table. “Here you can see available farmland for the city of Durotania. This next scroll is available farmland further north in the Bluelands, which is usually reserved mostly for the men of the Grimwatch.”