The Coward King: Part One - Rebellion

Rebellion: Prologue

The Coward King

Part One: Rebellion

Prologue

Silence ruled the night with an iron fist. Not a sound dared to challenge its reign. No birds sang their mournful nighttime songs; no wind ruffled the leaves and brush. No, that silence was complete, but for the soft crunch of tired hooves upon the dying, yellow grass.

Shining a soft grey in the moonlight, Dorad Erilion’s weary eyes scanned the horizon for signs of movement. He had been tireless once, but those days seemed longer ago than the few weeks it had been. Once Dorad had thought himself invincible, immortal. The fancies of children and fools, he thought now.

Once his men had raised their voices in songs of victory from their saddles, the joyful tunes carrying across the open plains. Now the ragged bunch rode hunched for fear of being seen in their lonesome ride. Once they had dreamed of rebellion, of freedom from the tyrant. Now they dreamed of survival, and that seemed almost folly.

Dorad would not ride by day. On the endless plains of Mallesia the cover of night was the only defence a man could have if he did not wish to be found. Dorad did not mean to give that up. When darkness fell, they would mount and ride until the sun first appeared over the horizon, and then they would spend the long hours of the day sweating and hiding in the brush. For now the moon hung sullenly over the plains, casting a poor light over the grass and leaving it a sickly grey colour.

They were to strike across the plains of Mallesia until they arrived at the Greanian border, and from there they would make their way to the port city of Bocia. That was the plan, as far as they’d thought of it. Dorad wasn’t entirely sure what they would do then. He wanted to hire a ship to take them across the Acar Ocean, to get as far as he could from the mainland, to Sar Ekand maybe, or the distant islands to the north. But his men had families and they did not wish to abandon their own flesh and blood, even after the shame that they’d brought to their names. Maybe the party would split in Bocia and the men would go their separate ways, reuniting with their families later. Then they could live their lives in quiet solitude, always remembering the one great failure of their youth.

Whatever they decided to do, one thing was certain; they could not show their faces in Elaech again. Not after what they had done.

“I say we keep up the fight,” declared Tatus Adenaron from the back of his horse. He had once been a lord’s son, the heir to a great portion of land in Elaech. Until he had raised his banner in favor of Dorad Erilion, that is. Now, he rode at Dorad’s side each night, offering counsel and advice to his defeated hero.

Dorad Erilion chuckled softly at the sentiment, as he’d done so many times before. “And storm the walls of Werach with thirty men? How do you propose we raise an army to do such a thing?” They had been through this many a time since the battle of the Faded Road, since their enemy had crushed them beneath the thick walls of Werach.

“Men have rallied to you before, my lord. They will come again. Our host was bested, yes, and the smallfolk think you slain on the field of battle. If word of your survival reached the ears of the people, you would have tens of thousands at your command once again!”

“Must you wake the very earth, Tatus?” Dorad replied calmly. “You need not shout. And I am no lord any longer. Do not call me that.” His lordship was forfeit the moment he’d spoken out against Allard’s rule.

“You can be a lord again, my…Dorad,” Tatus pressed. “I promise, the people know your cause is right. They grow weary of the taxes, tired of the cruel laws made by that craven Allard. All they need is a leader, and they will fight again.” Tatus drew his sword. “You are that leader, my lord. Before gods and men, I pledge my sword to you once again. I will stand by your side until I see you crowned as King of Elaech, or until I am dead and buried from the attempt.”

“Sheathe your sword, Tatus! You know well that if any of us show our faces again, we will be hanged as traitors.”

“Men shall sing of your great victory over the tyrant, my lord. Bards shall spread tales of us throughout the land, and every man, woman, and child will know your name. Imagine it, my lord. You will be a hero! The peasants will crown you with the gold stolen from them by the Coward King.”

Dorad shook his head in pity for the poor, deluded man riding at his side. “Men will sing songs of me, Tatus, that is certain. But they’ll be songs of how I was slain and had my head mounted upon a spike for all to see. You are yet young, Tatus, despite what you may think. It is time you learned that life is not a minstrel’s song. When we’re slain, the peasants will mourn us, for all the good that does, but the lords will laugh at our misfortune.”

Tatus finally put his sword back into its sheath and fell silent, his dreams temporarily crushed. They would return, Dorad knew, and be all the stronger for it. Dorad only wished that he could make the young lord learn the truth of things, that there would not, could not be a second chance for them. He had failed, and that was that.

And silence reigned once again.