The Supreme Warrior *2014 ABNA Contest 2nd Round*

CHAPTER 19: The Aftermath

NINETEEN: The Aftermath

The People gladly accept Rule as long as the Nation preserves its Children; but when a Ruler believes that his People exist to serve Himself and his Heirs, he becomes a Tyrant.

—Orlon 12:10 The Craft of Kings

The riots lasted until well into the next day. The Priests of Maht-Hildis abandoned their small temple in Selinger and disappeared from the City. As evening drew on, the people seemed to tire without any purpose to sustain them. With their anger purged, exhaustion set in. Weary rioters skulked home to tend their wounds.

The Middens was a shambles.

The people had acted out their rage against the shopkeepers and tradesmen who served them, while the true perpetrators of their situation looked down from the hills behind the safety of high walls. The Dryhtern, protected by water and the wealth of their customers, might have shown few effects from the riots had not seven of their Lords died in one night, while the eighth had fled the City to escape a traitor’s fate.

No one knew who truly ruled the City. The only visible authorities were the knightly retinues and guard units that roamed the streets. The big question was: who controlled those units? Cal doubted there would be a clear answer anytime soon.

The first morning after the riots ended, Cal ventured into the Middens. Even though only a few hardy souls dared to walk the streets, people still recognized the Hero of the Harvest Festival.

I’m surprised anyone still cares about feats achieved in the Arena. I guess they’d rather think of Tournaments than the reality they have endured the last few days.

Most remarkably, in a City where splintered guard units had given their allegiance to a number of different officials, people Cal encountered universally respected the Golden Scepter token he wore on his Knight’s Belt. They became downright deferential once someone recognized him from the Arena. As a result, he could travel swiftly and safely through the wrack.

The rank smells of burnt timber and dead flesh filled the air. Here and there, people cleaned up wreckage left by the riots. A few tradesmen repaired broken shops, while other stores had been ruined beyond immediate repair. Broken bodies still lay strewn in the streets, where Watch units had yet to remove the corpses to the Temple district for burial. With an almost unconscious homing instinct, Cal found himself standing outside Saknoti’s almost totally unscathed home.

Thanks be to all the Gods!

Pleased to see its condition, he pulled the bell and Saknoti’s nameless slave immediately opened the door. Inside was the same ascetic precision Cal had known for so long. Saknoti met him in the foyer and answered the question that radiated from the young man’s face. “We fought them at the door. Looters did not enter here.”

Before the young knight could ask, Fardinanth, Othon, Philburn and Garin walked in from the next room, followed by a horde of people Cal could only assume were their families.

Fardinanth explained, “We came ta have a little celebration fer your victory in the Arena, laddie. Then the riots started. We were lucky ta be together: because that way, we could fight ‘em off. I don’t wanna think ’bout what happened to our homes.”

Phil admonished, “We are alive, Fardinanth. That is enough.”

He could not imagine the reserved Saknoti making merry with the rambunctious caravan guards; but, apparently, Saknoti was for more comfortable with Cal’s friends than he had ever recognized.

After all, they do work for the same Master. They’ve probably known each other far longer than I‘ve been alive.

While he mused over his friends, Othon poked a finger at his Knight’s Belt, “Look at that! Imagine the swath I could cut with one of those!”