The Supreme Warrior *2014 ABNA Contest 2nd Round*

CHAPTER 19.1: The Aftermath

To Cal’s great surprise, Saknoti waited for him at the docks as he returned from the Dryhtern. Cal disembarked from the boat, paid the boatman, and then he walked straight to his mentor.

Why is he here?

Saknoti’s right hand grasped the middle of a slightly curved sword housed in a plain black scabbard. The diminutive sailor’s eyes drifted to the gutted sword-hilt at Cal’s back. Carefully, he said, “I see you need a new sword.”

“I suppose. I wish I didn’t.”

“Bah. Cal-li-don, the sword will always be with us. Whether we array ourselves as prayer groups, gangs, and tourney societies, or guilds, armies, and nations, we will fight.”

Saknoti concluded, “Warfare is a disease that comes from Order. No mind, or body, can ever remain completely healthy.”

Before Cal could debate the matter, Saknoti took the scabbard in both palms and presented the sword to Calidon. “’Tis sword of my ancestors. I want you to have it.”

Cal had seen the blade hanging high on the wall of Saknoti’s study, but he had never seen his mentor use it. Cal put his hand to the plain hilt and pulled the sword free from its sheath; the metal lightly rang as the edge rasped against the scabbard’s steel lip.

Cal fell into silent awe as he held the sword in his hand. Saknoti said, “Victory is nothing.”

His mentor confided, “All that matters are the things that victory protects—your family, your brethren, and your People. That why founder of my House etched, ‘There is No Victory’, on this sword.”

’Tis the finest blade I have seen in my life.

The balance was superb, but that was too simple a feature to consider it craft. The blade gleamed in the afternoon sun, the bright light clearly showing silvered script etched down the sword’s length in the same strange characters he had seen on the scrolls stored in Saknoti’s study. Twin serpents coiled at the base of the blade where it met the simple oval hilt. He tested the sword’s sharpness with his fingertip and found that the metal held a finer edge than any he had cause to test.

“Smiths in my land refold the metal upon itself many times during forging. Blade will hold very fine edge, but will not shatter.”

Saknoti bowed to Calidon and said, “My ancestors will be honored, if you choose to bear it.”

Sir Calidon returned his mentor’s bow. As he attached the scabbard to the strap over his shoulder, he felt as if the ancient blade had cleansed the belt at his waist and the golden spurs on his heels. For the first time, Cal believed he had truly earned his knighthood.

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The six men met on a barren islet in the middle of Selinger Bay under the eerie glow of the full moon. They did not want prying eyes to see their meeting, yet they did not trust each other enough to meet in the blind night. They had waited until the month’s end when the darkness would hide them from casual view and the full moon would allow watchful eyes to mark any attempt at ambush.

“I have initiated this meeting, m’lords, because I believe it is within all of our interests that we know the City’s condition as winter closes upon us,” began Prime Minister Gislar in a clipped, business-like tone.

“Since it was I who called us together, I shall begin.” Gislar paused a moment to collect his thoughts, then continued, “We are fortunate the Barons had an unusually good harvest this season. I do not want to think about what the City would be like if the people were hungry.”

The Prime Minister continued, “The problem, however, is distribution. Long before the Festival, my counters gathered estimates from all the estates who owe grain to the City stores. Unfortunately, the riots hit well before the Barons were obligated to deliver their bounty. Few had met their quotas before the Festival and we have not received any deliveries since. Most Lords have simply sat behind their castle walls and are still waiting for the trouble to begin again.”

Gislar warned, “We cannot allow this situation to continue, or else it will be as if we had no harvest at all.”

Sir Frálig replied with a rough grunt, “Hmmph. How can you blame the common Knight? Kyssalia commandeered every cart, dray, and wagon in the City to clean up after the riots. Why should they send even more vehicles for her to take? What guarantee do they have that she will return their property?”

The Prime Minister admonished, “M’lord, your attitude is somewhat lacking for one sworn to the personal service of the Princess.”

Frálig retorted, “I simply repeat what Knights say in their Chapter Houses across the City. I hear ’tis even worse out in the countryside. If you want us to stand on parade, Gislar, we will be here all night.”

Corel Mycelere concurred, “Yes, let us get to the crux of the matter. We can talk about the prosaic problems of food, water and the City walls all night long, but those issues will resolve themselves only when we know the new order in the City.”

“New order? What new order? Nothing has changed. The Princess is the clear heir...”

In a slow and deliberate cadence, Eranius—Lord of the Temples—proclaimed, “Prime Minister, I believe the events of the last few days are a clear sign from Heaven. Our leaders strayed from Their will. The Gods have given us a chance to rectify our ways. We dare not ignore Their message.”

Frálig interjected, “Gislar, if your little Princess still wishes to sleep in the Palace, she had better choose one of us to warm her bed.”

“Sir Frálig! Remember your oath!”

“Hang my oath. I’m talking reality here.”

The Priest shifted uncomfortably, but did not voice an objection.

Captain-general Valdrey agreed, “Sir Frálig speaks bluntly; but, he speaks the truth. T’would be very different if Corfan and Leodan had not died last winter. However, Kyssalia has not finished her training in statecraft. Prince Keldrin did not begin to school her until her brothers caught the plague. She is not ready to hold the throne by her own strength.”

Sir Frálig demanded, “Where does your loyalty lay, Valdrey. Who would you see in the Palace?”

“My loyalty lies in no man, or woman, m’lords. Instead, I give my allegiance to Order,” answered Captain-general Valdrey, choosing his words with care. “Let that serve as a warning to any who would pursue their ambitions by rousing the populace.”

Councilman Scalca shrilly objected, “Why point the blame at me?”

Sir Frálig retorted, “Why should we not, Tailor? Have you not been stirring up the people, screaming about injustice ever since you demanded elected seats to the Privy Council?”

“I may have been nothing but a Tailor before I won my seat to the Outer Chamber, but I do know there is far too much work and not enough coin to repair the City. If you think you can order the people to labor without having any say in the process, you are sadly mistaken.”

Valdrey snorted, “The Outer Chamber cannot even stop the public baths from growing mold. What makes you think you can set policy?”

As the rest of the meeting degenerated into pointless bickering, Prime Minister Gislar knew that if the Princess were to retain any kind of position at all, he would have to make numerous concessions to different factions throughout the City. He wondered how much authority Princess Kyssalia would have left when he was done.

He did not look forward to the coming years.

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