The Kingdom of Liticea: The Sorcerer Prince

Chapter Eight: Morning in Soot City

The captain now felt trapped, "I... ," she began to plead her case but she knew by the Princes eyes that it would fall on deaf ears, "Very well, my Lord.'

"Bring your lieutenants as well. I think this is a wonderful opportunity to work out some of those divisions," before Noc could protest the Prince turned and walked on with a slight skip in his step. Noc just hoped there was not too much wine in the dining hall of Lord Dayvey. Unlikely when dealing with the Champions.

"The days of wrath shall come upon us! The Gods shall look the other way as we indulge ourselves in pleasures!"

Old Ricah shouted in the middle of Hammer square, before the steps of Castle Blackfield, "If we do not concede the wisdom of the Gods, if we do not follow the principles of Rathas, the Almighty than we shall soon find ourselves staring Armageddon in the face!"

Riding past him, Locke, Jergan, Eliza, and the others they rode with were amused by his rantings. They woke up to it almost every morning, and fell asleep to it every night. What amazed them was how he could yell so loud for so long.

"The Gods see us now! They see us always! Like rats we wallow in our own corruption! They see it all!"

"Do you think he will ever get tired of that?" Eliza asked aside to Jergan.

"He's been at it for fifteen years, I doubt it."

"The Gods see their supposed Champions writhing in the brothels with whores in pools of wine!"

"You've got to admire his dedication," Locke said, "Spending hours a day for years on end yelling at himself;"

"The day he stops will be the end of days," Jergan said.

"Then he'll be preaching about how he told us so" Eliza guessed.

"And now they're even letting women and barbarians take up the banner of Rannos! Destruction will soon reign if we do not yield to the will of Rathas!"

"I think he just wants an excuse to yell," stated Locke. As their patrol ventured further from the square, the voice of the preacher did not seem to die down. the rantings were now unintelligible, but still rang in the streets outside the forges and shops.

"He gets so loud during the Festival," Jergan acknowledged.

"This year, I'll get one of those rings," Locke announced.

"You understand that those are rigged, do you?"

"No, I saw Yorod Dayvey get it once."

"But that's Yorod, he probably bought them out."

"Why would he spend money to get a prize?" Jergan asked.

"To get the prize?" Eliza suggested.

"Why not just buy it?"

"Doesn't impress much to just buy it."

Jergan shrugged, "I suppose not."

"I don't need money to win a prize," Locke proclaimed.

"Especially when the prize is impossible to win."

"We'll see about that," he declared.

"I'm just excited for the tournament," Jergan said, "Gor told me Helg is entering."

"Gor will be laughing his ass off when Helg is sent flying off."

"He may do well."

"Nah, he's spent too much time with the books. Sword arm has gotten flabby. Julius Cassius is entering, he will go far."

"I doubt that, there are several contestants coming up from the south. Userian Mercenaries. They could put up a fight."

Locke scoffed, "Fighting off starving men in desert rags. Very impressive."

"Whatever you say," Jergan said, "I'm just looking forward to the feast," his mouth watered at the thought of it.

"How can you think of food when we've just had breakfast?" Eliza asked.

"You women can't possibly understand," Jergan explained, "us males require much nourishment to maintain our strong frame."

Eliza rolled her eyes and changed the subject back to the festival, "I want to visit Saud's caravan this year."

"Uh, the Usarian," Locke grumbled, "You know he'll cheat you."

"I do not, and neither do you!" Eliza exclaimed, "Why must you be so judgmental?"

"I once bought a 'fine' tapestry off the man for my mother, and on its way the thing came undone and fell apart!"

"That doesn't mean he's a cheat."

"With Usarians, you must always assume that they're cheats."

"Especially if they're merchants," Jergan added.

"Exactly," Locke agreed, "Never trust anyone south of Noor."

"Fruitcakes! I love fruitcakes!" Malken called as he stumbled around his tent in his undergarments.

"I'm afraid he's still under the Leaf, lieutenant," the guard explained to Freedmir. He thought the general went through his last package a week ago, but he always has more somewhere, somehow.

"Hail to the Goddess Elsmere, who brought us the gift of fruitcakes!"

"I'll take it from here, soldier," Freedmir said, "Keep a guard outside and don't let anyone in; for their safety."

"Yes, sir," the guard stepped out as Malken peering through his hands like a sailor through an eyeglass. Squatting up and down, and shaking his red hair into a tangled mush. Malken slowly circled the room, until his imaginary glass caught sight of his lieutenant.

"My Dear Freedmir!" he shouted throwing up his hands with his eyes as grand as plates, "My old friend! Won't you join me for some fruitcake," he gestured towards a small table where he had set up dishes and utensils.

"I'm sorry, general, but I don't believe there is any fruitcake," Freedmir calmly replied. His master was still clearly under the influence.

Malken stood still and his mad look vanished and was replaced with a hostile one. He reached into a nearby pile of clothes and pulled out a sword, which made Freedmir take a few steps back.

"Who are these thieves? I shall hang their heads from my bed!" he angrily shouted, swinging the sword, nearly slashing furniture in half.

Freedmir held up his hands and spoke softly to the general, "What I mean, general is that there will be some available tomorrow night."

Malken stopped swinging and held the tip of the blade in front of Freedmir's nose, "Speak!" he said.

"There is a feast to celebrate the Festival of Steel and Prince Tauron has extended invitations to you."

Malken dropped his sword and smiled, "Freedmir, you old bastard!" he threw his arms around the complacent lieutenant and lifted him off his feet, "You old, gray, withered, smokey bastard!" he squeezed so tight that Freedmir could hardly breath.

"Point me to the fruitcake and I shall sail!" he shouted as he set Freedmir down.

"I'll take that as a yes," Freedmir said, shaken, "I shall inform the Prince."

"Sailing! Sailing! Sailing!" Malken yelled as he resumed prancing around the room. Freedmir exited the tent and was approached by several regulars. General Jon Malken's tent had become quite an attraction in the camp.

"Is it true, sir?" one asked.

"Pardon?"

"That Prince Tauron cursed the general?"

Freedmir laughed, "No, the general simply had a little slice of the Leaf."