The King of Embers

PRELUDE

Letomos (summer)

554, A.F

Menshid - Capital of Iraton and the Eastern League

Through a rising screen of steaming ash and smoke, rods of hot light spattered against his face. The embers swarmed like gnats with the easterly breeze, coming up from the flickers of amber that bloomed in the city below. For days the lower districts burned, showing no sign that alluded to it ceasing. The screams still filled the air, though now the excitement of slaughter had submitted to exhaustion. All Hephisan could do was watch. He stood at the merlons of the Citadel walls, looking down at the murder of his people, the fate of the city cast into remnants of ash and charred rubble.

Hate pulsed through his veins like venom, coursing to his heart and pumping him with righteous energy. His hands clenched tight, trembling as pain took hold of them. Tonight was the night - the king must die.

The walls he stood upon he cursed, spat at the discoloured stone parapets, blackened by days of skirting smoke. The river below surged, its water blackened by the night, and islanded the Citadel. It meandered south, the turgid flow a bulwark against the Eliphan besiegers, mounting up by the banks of the river, the burning districts of Menshid casting a pallor of dark mist and billowing ash-clouds behind. For three years the city held; now within the course of a week it fell like dominoes. First the Empire Sappers broke the outer-walls. The lower districts fell. Then the tiered walls proceeding, abandoned as anarchy flashed with ululating ease across the capital. Eliphan legions poured through, clearing the rubble as the killing squads got to work. And what does the Shalm do? He sits and waits!

The wind turned and the smoke subsided, and his eyes, sore from days of sleeplessness, finally grasped an image of the remnants of Menshid. His heart ached for the people; his stomach boiled hate. Far into the distance, past the city's outer-wall the once vast, unending Desial Plain was cut short by the looming sight of the Choke, a wall encasing Menshid, built by the Empire three years ago. A siege wall of unseen proportions, one that turned the tides of the siege, sealed Hephisan's fate without an inkling of hope.

From leaning over the merlon, Hephisan straightened, took in a breath of charred air, and looked over his shoulder. He had sensed a presence and his suspicions were confirmed when the old seer Nemanos nodded in the doorway behind. The old man hobbled closer, grey eyes piercing Hephisan's, his long white beard ruffling in the constant wind. In those eyes, unblinking ahead of Hephisan, the prince saw a sullen, yet dutiful glint shimmer in the moonlight.

As Nemanos made his way to the parapets, Hephisan turned and once more looked upon Menshid. The seer entered his peripheral vision and regarded him with a nod, focus too on the city. "Coins have passed with ease," the man murmured.

Heart lurching, Hephisan snapped his gaze onto Nemanos. So it begins. "Where is he?"

The man kept his clouded eyes on the infernos raging below. "Bolhumon's Belfry, locked in with the House Guard."

Hephisan frowned, moving his body to face the seer. "But they-"

"Coins have passed, my prince. They await sanction. Loyalty has been acquired, this I can assure you of."

"He cowers?"

"He prays."

"In the Belfry?"

"As close as one can get to the heavens in Menshid."

Hephisan slowly craned his head toward the Citadel towers erecting high, and at the belfry, highest of all within the walled keep. Its red tiled roof reflected the moonlight elegantly, and the grand-bell awaited to be rung, bellowing out the message of a new age. Was there still time to save the people of Menshid? Hephisan could only hope. Months in the planning, Hephisan's council of conspirators drooled over the day the city be freed of Hemisus, the tyrant king, the madman - the one brave enough to challenge Elipha; the one stubborn enough to refuse surrender. But to kill one's own brother? Hephisan doubted his ability to be the man who delivers the final blow. Caught in a swarm of thoughts, Hephisan noticed Nemanos had faced him and was awaiting the prince's command.

Hephisan swallowed hard, his throat bulging and jaw tautening as he struggled with the task. With a nod, he said, "to the belfry."

Walking with great tension through the winding hallways and up climbing staircases, the two men reached the landing at the end of which stood an arched wooden door. At regular intervals with backs against either wall, the House Guard stood to attention, lances jutting above their peaked helms and the mail masks shrouding their faces. Hephisan hesitated, then calmed with the touch of Nemanos to his shoulder. "Coins, prince," he whispered.

The roaring of fire, the tearing of burning wood and the din of wails of slaughter was nothing but a distant murmur. Though now all Hephisan could hear was a faint whimper, a flurry of desperate pleas to the gods. He approached the door ahead where the noise emanating, the guards following as he passed.

The noises were now understandable. Pathetic. Heart-breaking. The king who'd cast the world in bitter war for two decades cried. Cried for forgiveness. It was too late. Gods curse the king.

"Ah!" he screamed as he brought a foot to the door, bursting it open, wood splintering out onto the bell-deck of the belfry. The wind and smoke surged through the open archways, and the sight of burning returned. Under the Balmah's Bell itself crouched Hemisus, a stout man, fat and grease ridden. His stubby fingers were clenched together as he rocked and whimpered. He didn't even acknowledge the intrusion, didn't even care.

"Brother!" he called, trying to dismay the man from incessant moans. There was no reply. From his scabbard, Hephisan brought out a sword, and the guards flooded the bell-deck, lances aimed down at the praying king.

The wind picked up, now howling passed his ears. It kicked his long black hair, covering his face. He fell to his haunches, brushing away the hair, and put a hand to his brother. The man scowled back, almost hissed, and hit at the hand. Standing, he penetrated deep into Hephisan with a look of betrayal set deep within his dark eyes. The king then took a series of steps back, stopping just before the belfry's edge. Below him flowed the Jaskar River, some 300ft down. He looked to it, then back to Hephisan.

Finally, the tyrant spoke, a tear burgeoning in his eye. "Oh gods, has it come to this? I am no dog; I will not be slain like street mongrel. I have not abandoned my city. I have not bent a knee to conquerors. I have done my duty." The tear burst from his eye and rolled down his brown-skinned cheeks, disappearing into the bristles of his black beard, but leaving a faint trail in its wake. The hate that once boiled in Hephisan died. Memories of childhood took its place, memories of a brother he loved.

"There is hope for you, my king. Surrender the city, abjugate your throne; allow the people mercy!" Hephisan's words fell onto deaf ears.

"Balmon, take me in your grasp," the king said, looking up to the bell with flickering eyelids.

The prince's grip tightened around his sword hilt; the guards flinched forwards, old duties compelling them to act. The king looked to them and smiled. "Duty," he said, "how it burns one's soul."

He closed his eyes and leaned back to fall. Within seconds he was gone.

Hephisan didn't move. He waited. There was no splash as his body his the water of Jaskar, no crash as he hit the Citadel merlons. There was only silence.

The tear continued to roll down Hephisan's face, his eyes wide and flooded. The hand of Nemanos touched his shoulder and those water-filled eyes looked down to the wrinkles of his fingers. The man whispered, "Today you have saved our people."

Hephisan sighed, whispering under his breath, "And I have betrayed myself."