Victory's Price

Mollen (Part Ten)

Chapter 10

Moll marched stiffly into the council chambers. The place had always been stark, and the room cold, a legacy from old battle kings. These days, however, every wall was covered in tapestries, the floor piled with thick rugs and the throne, currently empty, coated in plush velvet cushions.

It struck him as wrong, somehow, the decadence, but he would receive any comfort gratefully in these moments. It had been a long ride from the East and he had not even allowed himself a minute to wash the dust, and the stress, from his face.

"Mollen."

He bowed deeply at the greeting.

"My Lords." Moll replied graciously.

Before him were arrayed the four House Heads in straight backed chairs and, behind them, the king's personal champion who stood, semi-concealed, in the shadows behind the throne. They were well-known men, Marcus Cairn, Hugh Grimlet, Azra Cormell and Miken Tremlett, but they were not his king. Moll knew he should well have been disappointed, but in actuality he found himself more than a little relieved that he might hear some sense instead of having to deal with the troubled teen. It was not a good sign for his cause, but he just needed to sleep right now.

"I trust you journeyed well?" The question came from Moll's right where Marcus Terville sat. Marcus was the youngest of the men that peered down at him from their raised dais, if, of course, one did not count the silent standing figure.

Marcus had only recently stepped up to receive the title from his father. He wore the blue emblem of his family: the soaring crow of House Cairn's founder, proudly upon his chest.

"Very well, m'Lord." Moll replied courteously with the expected answer. The question had only been a politeness. He neglected to inform them of the three men he had lost on the way home.

"We were expecting your brother." This time the statement came from Hugh Grimlet.

A great beast of a man, Hugh was in his late forties and for as long as Moll had been aware, he had served proudly as head of House Forett. Secretly, Moll had always thought his countenance better suited to the legendary flames of House Callen as the hair, now greying, that he always wore tied back in a leather thong, was a bright shock of red.

Moll nodded slowly before he answered, attempting to pick his words carefully.

"Wolf was called away on a personal errand before your summons arrived. Had he realised, I am sure he would have sent his apologies."

"Wolf!" Grimlett laughed at the name, a deep bellow that suited his thick chest. To his right, skinny Miken Tremlett of House Sara snorted, trying to hold back laughter.

"He still holds by that farce of a name, then." Hugh concluded.

"A man should stick to the name his father gives him. Toran is a good, strong title." Miken agreed.

"A man should be allowed his dreams." Moll countered, secretly agreeing with their scepticism. Toran had always been a little eccentric.

"True enough." Hugh conceded. "Spoken, as always, with more than just a little wisdom, Mollen. Besides, you are both still young, your brother has plenty enough time to regret the error."

"You should have been born first, boy." Miken told him.

Moll had always liked the slender Saran Head. His pale skin, lank hair and stick-like limbs had given him a bad reputation among the commons. He looked suspicious and it bred rumours. Moll, however, had always found the man to be surprisingly open.

Rather, it was he who spoke next that upset Moll most. There was just something about ancient Azra Cormell, Head of House Callen, that put him on edge.

"Your brother requested audience quite urgently, Master Sante, perhaps it is time you told us what you require."

"Indeed, my apologies." Moll looked around the room uncertainly. By some, unwelcome, chance he caught the eye of the warrior behind the throne.

Hecter's Phoenix, the boy king's personal weapon. His title was a fairly new one. The position of the king's swear sword had always belonged to the most successful player and as such had kept the title of his own making: Queen Zara's Ox, Michael's Dragon and of course, most famously, Red's Phoenix. But the closure of the Stars had called for a new system. Since then the king's protection had remained consistent. In a way Red's Phoenix had never died, taking on a fresh reincarnation as each new ruler came to pass. Moll's brother, however, had always taken the legend of the immortal champion a little too literally.

As he hesitated, the Phoenix's eyes continued to bore into his own. Moll shivered. There was more than one man in this realm that unnerved him.

"I had hoped to address the king."

"The king has his own concerns." Cormell replied sternly.

From the end of the line of four, Marcus Terville sighed.

"Like gamboling, feasting and girls." He commented bitterly.

Just metres away from the politician's disrespectful words, the shadowy warrior shifted position slightly. It put Moll on edge.

"It is important, m'Lords." Moll stressed.

He just wanted to go home now, take a bath. Perhaps he would get a man to find him a girl. Gods knew he deserved it.

"Here, boy." Hugh Grimlett leant forwards, speaking kindly. "You tell us quickly what you need. We let you go back to that town house of yours. You can take a bath, have a nap. Find a girl if you need." Hugh winked playfully and Moll wondered if he had just had his mind read. "And we'll discuss it. If we deem your case crucial enough you can come back tomorrow and speak to the king yourself, after a good night's sleep."

Moll nodded slowly. The man made sense.

"We need more men. A lot more men." The problem was simple enough.

The disruption along the Seiran portals was rapidly escalating. If nothing could be done to settle political unrest, a greater force at least would be required to prevent things from becoming drastic.

Hugh leant back slowly.

"You already have over half a cohort." Miken pointed out.

"Half a cohort is not enough."

Moll felt a pang of conscience then. He was not bringing the true words of his brother to court. Toran would most certainly have had a few words to say about the Twelve Stars that continued to shine proudly, yet deserted, just a few streets away.

But Moll would need a blade at his throat before he embarrassed himself with such childish trivialities.

Azra Cormell's expression was dark as he addressed the issue.

"You have already heard our opinions on this matter, Sante." He reminded.

"Yes, m'Lord." Moll was careful to be polite. "But opinions may, perhaps, just need to turn into actions."

"We have heard all of this before." Marcus reminded the room impatiently.

"And we will hear it again."

"Yes." Azra sighed. "Things should be done properly, at least."

"Go home, Mollen." Miken told him. "Get yourself cleaned up. We shall talk in the morning."

Inwardly, Moll sighed. His presence had animated them, at the very least.

As he left the room, bone weary and dissatisfied, the others turned to each other, beginning to speak. But there was one that remained silent, the killer in the shadows, and Moll's skin crawled beneath the pressure of a single pair of hooded eyes.