Writings, Musings and More, 2017, Vol. I

So, here it is, your first post of 2017. Usually I'll end the year with some kind of social commentary, and begin the next in the same fashion, but I didn't have it in me this year. Too much division, politics, death. I don't want to think about it anymore. So, drawing inspiration from some recently binged entertainment, I decided to start the year off wielding my creativity. Let me know what you think.  With that, I give you the opening stanzas of my newest idea....

War of the Realms.

When he entered, he appeared gilded; the golden armor of his breastplate reflected the glow of fire's climbing embers back into the kneeling prisoner's eyes. The man dared not chance a second glance. Seldom did Bokan trivialize his time with such matters, but this occasion garnered his attention.

"Speak," he commanded. When the prisoner did not, he struck the man across the face with the back of his forearm, imprinting on the man's cheek the mark of the dragon embossed into the leather armlet Bokan wore.

"I said speak. Do not make query again."

"My lord, I beg your mercy. He threatened my children he —"

"Speak swiftly, the words I need to hear. I care not for your children."

The prisoner instinctively arched backwards as the king leaned closer, and wished he hadn't. The ropes binding his wrists behind his back dug deeper; blood slipped from the wounds and pooled in his palms.

"What did you tell Prince Kellen?"

"I, I, my lord, I informed him only of the convoy, travelling on the West Road from Alumbai. I swear it! He demanded knowledge of your coin shipments. That is all the information I could give, as I knew nothing more!"

Bokan righted himself, and the leather straps of his kilt swayed as he paced. The weight of his massive frame, augmented by the additional armor covering his shins and his heavily booted feet, stirred clouds of dust and ash into the air with each purposeful step.

"I lost six legionnaires in Kellen's raid. It is only because I did not lose my coin that you still breathe."

"I am humbled, my lord."

"Bah! Don't be. You will not continue to do so much longer. Your death will be swift, reward for your ultimately honesty." The prisoner, a legionnaire now traitorous and disgraced, looked up in horror as Bokan drew his crystalline sword from its sheath.

"Magnificent, isn't it?" The sword glimmered in the fire light. "Strike a crystal bowl, or vase, and it shatters to pieces. This," he said, gesturing the sword as he waved it through the air. "This blade is unbreakable; harder and sharper than any steel. The craftsmen who forge these weapons have done so for eons, and no one save the crystal smiths themselves knows how such a feat is possible."

Bokan spoke not directly to the prisoner, but in deferential awe of the sabre he wielded. Without further thought or word, he turned and swung, cleaving head from body. No blood stained the crystal as he returned it to his scabbard.

"String up the body for the dragons, and pike the head," he ordered.

With a fist pounded to chest, his loyal legionnaire did as commanded and dragged the body, and head, from the tent, leaving Bokan alone with his docent advisor.

"Prince Kellen grows bolder, my lord. How will you respond?"

Bokan pondered. "Sunda, how long have you served me?"

"Many moons, my lord."

"Yet you disappear for moons at a time."

"I always return, sire."

Bokan sighed. "That you do, my old friend. Tell me, how do you think I should respond? Your counsel is appreciated."

Sunda thought deeply before speaking. "For twenty years there has been peace between the kingdoms. Though tepid, there was peace. When King Dorn fell ill, and the Prince assumed command of the Westward Realm… He is blinded by ambition and greed. He's broken the peace. Though we cannot prove it was Kellen's men that raided the coin convoy, we know it to be so."

"You speak many words, docent, but you've not answered my question."

"I would suggest a parlay, but Kellen will not accept. I think it is time to declare the peace at an end, and claim the Westward Realm."

"You suggest war?"

"War is inevitable. Humbly, my lord, I think you already know that and seek the justification of a second opinion."

Bokan scoffed. "You are the only one I allow to speak to me in such a manor; you realize that, don't you?"

"You'd not value my opinion if I spoke otherwise."

"True, true. Then it is to war we go. Assemble the council. And make sure Tarfo is present. Drag him from the brothel if you have too."

Sunda bowed. "As you command, sire." Sunda took his leave. The Eastern King remained for some time, staring into the fire until it burned his retinas. Bokan was a reluctant King. His father and King Dorn had forged the peace that the Eastward and Westward Realms had shared when Bokan was but a small boy. Barely a year Kellen's senior, at just twenty-six years of age, Bokan had inherited his father's throne, and his burdens. Bokan was a warrior; he was not meant to be a king. Still, he ruled with authority, and was respected, because of his warrior's heart. Even the greatest of soldiers knew that war, though necessary, was not ideal. He'd do what was best for his people, for his kingdom. If it meant war, the war it was.

Bokan pushed his way through the heavy tarps that covered the tent's opening and strode out into the night air. Clouds formed in the sky, and his nostrils burned with the humid stench of the fires, the horses, and the sweat of a thousand men. Qura housed the grounds where his soldiers readied themselves for combat. Encircling the fields in which various battle training stations and the horse ring awaited his warriors were two rings of dirtied white tents in which those warriors slept, drank and conversed. At the very center stood five sets of posts, twenty feet high, in another circle, and between each set were strung bodies in various states of decay. Traitors. Thieves. Deserters. Bokan was a just king, unless crossed.

As ordered, the last betrayer's headless body was strung up, and Bokan watched with anticipation, searching the skies. They came soon enough; a flock of vulture dragons. Their shrieks silenced the chatter in the camp as all looked skyward, and their leathery wings pounded the sky. It was time to feed, and the fresh corpse proved a delicacy for the voracious pygmy dragons. They tore into the body, squawking and snipping at one another as blood and flesh spilled to the ground. One among them, though, appeared not hungry, and sought out its master. Bokan raised his left arm and upon it came one of the dragons to rest.

"Mongo, my pet. Why do you not feast?" The dragon did not, and could not speak, yet cooed as Bokan stoked its head with his free hand. Mongo palyfully nipped at the King's fingers.

"A magnificent beast, sire," a voice called from behind the King.

"Tarfo! I half expected you to be in town quenching your desires," said Bokan with a hint of ire in his voice. Tarfo was his general and, though the best warrior Bokan had, was arrogant and a braggart. The King tolerated his narcissism, to a point. "Did you exhaust all of the whores?"

Tarfo grinned. "Every last one, sire. Hello Mongo." Tarfo reached towards the dragon, who hissed and spat fire in reply. Bokan laughed.

"The dragon sees your true character, general."

"My character is of no concern on the battlefield, my lord."

"That is why you remain my general, Tarfo. Come. We've preparations to make."

Tarfo followed obediently. Bigger than even the king, and more muscular, Tarfo wore the same armor and leathers as Bokan, though his breastplate was one solely of steel and not plated in gold as was his king's. Each bore the crest of Bokan's kingdom; a pair of winged, rearing dragons with their wings extended and their long necks intertwined. Tarfo, like the king, also wore a crystalline blade at his side. Across his back, two shorter, crystal blades crossed in sheaths. Tarfo was Bokan's champion, and he knew it; he also knew enough not to overstep his bounds. Though smaller, Tarfo's king had on more than one occasion proved more fearsome, and deadly.

Together they crossed the grounds to the temple tent, where Bokan's travelling thrown rested before a long table with seven chairs. Sunda and Tarfo took their seats once the king rested in his. One by one the other councilors joined them: first entered Caleb, Tarfo's second in command and leader of the armies of the north; next was Jenga, the elder of the group. Jenga had served Bokan's father, and as he did Sunda, the young king trusted him. Next to arrive were the twin emissaries, Malcom and Marko. Last, as usual, was Serena; the warrior witch. Tarfo shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Once he'd made overtures to the witch. Once. Though he'd claimed he'd received it in battle, it was Serena that gave him the scar across his right cheek. Serena winked at him, and he looked away.

"Councilors, Kellen's audacity has reached new levels, even for him. He's attached our coin convey on the West Road, and has reached into our ranks. Peace between the realms is at an end." Bokan let his words hang as his war council digested the matter. Jenga broke the silence.

"My king, what of King Dorn? Prince Kellen is but a petulant child. Would it not be wiser to send assassins in secret, eliminate the prince?"

"King Dorn will not last another moon," Marko interjected. "His health leaves him more each day. From what I know from my contacts in the east, he no longer speaks and struggles to draw breath. Prince Kellen controls the legions, and kingdom's purse, I'm afraid."

Jenga bowed silently. Ever the pacifist, Jenga sought end to conflict without bloodshed. With Kellen there would be no such possibility.

"Caleb, what word from the north?"

"Sire, we're now patrolling Alumbai with regular forces, replacing the militia there. Guard at the wall gate is doubled, and all passers-through are checked fully. There will be no more raids from the Alumbai gate, I assure you."

Bokan nodded. "Good, good. And what say you, witch?"

Serena grinned, and her mocha skin glistened in the firelight. Tarfo took notice of the additional tattoos adorning her forearms that had appeared since last they met as a council. She studied them, as if the spoke to her.

"Kellen will not be easily defeated, my master. He is ambitious, but not foolish. I predict many losses."

"But what of victory?"

"Sire, respectfully, again I question the utility of this soothsayer on this council. Her conjuring and postulations have yet to –"

"She sits on this council, Emissary Marko, because it is my desire. And her conjuring, if I recall, allowed you to escape the Princess Arkana's chambers with your genitals still intact."

Marko glared at Serenea, then bowed his head to his king. "My pardon, sire."

Bokan grunted. "Continue."

"I see victory, my lord, but one amongst us will perish in your name. Shrouded are my visions, your grace; I cannot foresee who."

Murmurs filled the room and the council members looked to one another skeptically. Tarfo scoffed loudly.

"It will not be me, or Caleb, I assure you."

"And you think it will be one of us, General?" Malcom asked indignantly.

"You are but an emissary," replied Tarfo, mockingly.

Arguing ensued, broken finally by the sound of Bokan's heavy fist slamming down upon the table. "Enough! I value each of you, but none of you are irreplaceable. You serve the kingdom, with your lives, if needed. That is the oath you all swore. This bickering is over." Each nodded contritely.

"Now, let's begin."

 

© 2017 J.J. Goodman. All rights reserved.