The Trials of Redwyn Part I of III

The Trials of Redwyn-Pt I of III

"Must they always eat the human in front of me?" asked Redwyn, showing his best frown.

"As I have told you before, my lord, there is no other way. They must learn to fear you as they did your father."

Margon had always given Lord Redwyn that answer, though the conviction in his voice was starting to wane.

Redwyn slumped to one side of his throne, keeping his eyes fixed on the reptilian Margon. He was not keen to watch the massacre at his feet. At the base of the steps leading to his seat, six green figures hunched over a wriggling mass. The screams lasted a couple of seconds, until one of the more eager brutes who was not unlike Margon clamped down on the sacrifice's throat. After that the only noises that echoed in the hall were the splatter of blood on the tiles, the occasional sawing of teeth off bone, and the constant sighing of Lord Redwyn, who felt he had heard just about enough.

"Captain Margon, do hurry them. I'm growing restless."

The commander gave a brief bow, and then slid his weapon out of the sheath at his side, waving it near those eating and ordering something in an ugly tongue. The closest reptile caught sight of the steel in Margon's hand and shuffled to his feet, retreating onto his hind legs and looking rather awkward as he raised himself to a standing position.

Redwyn grinned. "So it's the blade then? That's what will stop them from...from doing that to me," finished the lord, gesturing to the mess below him. The captain laughed, or at least Redwyn thought he had. To him it always sounded like his guards were eating, even though Margon had managed to learn the common tongue a few years ago.

"They have no love for the weapons of your kind my lord."

"My assassins will have swords."

"But no time to draw them," snapped Margon, a hint of anger flashing across his face. He pointed to the carnage still raging on the throne room floor, where one of the green creatures had ripped off an arm and stuffed it in his mouth. Dark red poured over the beast's cracked lips, and Redwyn saw rows of teeth going to work on the flesh, gnashing off chunks that disappeared further back in the creature's throat. The reptile that Margon had at bay at the end of his sword shot a glance to the now unrecognisable carcass, his eyes swelling with desire. Redwyn swallowed a lump in his throat.

"My father would watch this too?"

Margon nodded. "At first, yes. It will not be long, my lord, before they are ready to keep you safe."

"May I remind you captain, my father trusted these animals and it didn't save him."

"Call them what names you will, my lord, they cannot understand you. But your father went to sleep and never woke up. He had seen too many winters and maybe not enough of them were biting."

Redwyn puffed his breath out again. His father had ruled the entire known world for thirty years and only seen war on a handful of occasions. Only six months into his reign, Redwyn had witnessed enough bloodshed for a lifetime. He looked again to the reptile squirming in his scales, whose tongue slipped out of his lips and licked at the air in front of him. For a split second, its yellow eyes met Redwyn's gaze, and the lord sank back into his chair. Margon was wrong, he told himself. This monster would take his first chance and devour him. To the lizard guards he was just another meal. Redwyn had definitely seen enough.

"Captain, get rid of them. Take their spoils with them. They can finish it later."

"At once my lord"

"And as for that one," he continued, fixing a finger on the lizard who had dared to call him supper with his eyes, "I do not trust him. He will not do."

"Is that all my lord?"

Redwyn shifted himself out of his chair, his knees creaking from the effort. "No," he coughed. "Fetch Sir Arron from the courts. Tell him to meet me on the double at the usual place."

Margon's face twisted in confusion, so much so that his sharp nose wrinkled back. "Serarrun?" said the lizard clumsily.

Redwyn shook his fist in dismissal. "The one you call ukthakin," he said in as hoarse a croak as his tender throat allowed him. Again, Margon seemed to laugh, keeping whatever private joke he had about Sir Arron to himself. A pale light had slipped in the windows on the western side of the room. Even to the reptiles, it must have seemed a cold light- the promise of an early winter devoid of good tidings. It splashed white on the terracotta floor, adding a shine to the spreading pool of red that nearly could have been called beautiful.

Margon strode in among his comrades, landing a heavy kick on the human remains that startled those who were busy eating. He jabbed at each of them with his curved blade, forcing them away from the remains and onto their feet. Only the captain looked at ease standing up. The rest of the reptiles placed each foot slowly, moving with a gait that sucked all the terror out of them. Lord Redwyn knew he could not have his guards at a disadvantage, less so looking like fools. Margon hauled the leftovers over his shoulder, but already Lord Redwyn spied the rest of the lizards turning towards the door.

"Captain" he called out. "I said that one will not do, did I not?"

Margon froze in his place, but didn't turn. "As you wish, my lord." The captain marched up to his guards, and without a word brought his sword sharply upon the neck of the yellow-eyed reptile. Redwyn knew the creature realised its fate all too late. It collapsed in a heap, dead in one stroke.

The rest of the lizards exchanged glances, but seemingly having enough wits to not question what had happened, carried on out the door.

"Will I take this body too, my lord?"

Lord Redwyn's eyes narrowed, "No, leave this one here."

Margon bowed and slipped outside after his comrades, leaving the door to be closed by the handpicked guards on the other side.

"At least those ones are men" Redwyn told himself when the echo of the door slamming shut had faded. The light of the room had now descended to a grey, leaving the crimson streaks looking like a distant foul memory. All about the corners of the hall were shadows, each looming up from the floor like they would swallow the world if Lord Redwyn let them. Lately, he felt like he was losing that fight, and more frightening again he didn't seem to care.

First, his brother had ridden off into the fifth kingdom; the one they called Lavastan, in search of some mythical blade. Owenn and his fairy stories, they were always leading him into trouble. Whatever knife stabbed him in the back however was plain enough, and he was probably still lying in the mud somewhere, his grand armour either stolen or caked in dirt. The news of his son's demise had taken a heavy toll on his father, who became a shadow in the keep; a ghost that haunted its corridors and avoided the light of day. When the guards had found him dead, nobody was less surprised than Lord Redwyn. In a short six months he had went from lesser prince, to heir to the throne, to a god on earth. And he hated all of it. Everyone looked at him like he was already dead. Hundreds of soldiers roamed the six levels of his castle day and night, watching for even the slightest hint of something amiss. And then there were the lizards.

His father had bought Margon and a brood twenty years ago, when some southern nobleman had claimed they would die before they gave up on their kill. It had come at a time when the five kingdoms were facing the only war under the reign of Redwyn's father; a war he of course won in one spring, smashing the rebel forces like he was disciplining a child. Yet still he had chosen to keep the reptiles. They were something "unique" he said; a demise that would make any assassin think twice before drawing a dagger in his presence. In a short few years the lord had even managed to inspire speech into the most fearsome of the lot, which was the one he had taken to calling Margon after the southerner's second name. That man received the highest of honours, being ripped to shreds by his own beasts five years after he sold them when he called for Redwyn's father to release them back into the wild. They were the biggest burden in Redwyn's inheritance, but not the only.

Redwyn knew Sir Arron was probably inside the castle now, busying himself to their meeting spot, and so he descended the steps to the floor. He skipped over what was left of the victim, which was now nothing more than a dark stain smeared over the floor's mosaic. At the end of the hall, just shy of the doors, he came at last to the corpse of the yellow eyed lizard, which had managed to hide in the gloom until Redwyn had drawn close. He coughed again, cursing his propensity for ill health, and knelt down by the body. Up close the green of the reptile was much paler than it appeared at a distance. It might have been the fluid leaking from where the sword had cut, but altogether the skin looked taut and lifeless, like it was a forest floor the light had shied away from for many years. The eyes had a small tint of gold, but it seemed to be hidden far in the back of the pupil, so that Redwyn had at least the satisfaction in knowing it was dead. Redwyn slowly passed a hand over the reptile's back. It was cold, slightly slimy, but even under the thick skin he could feel the muscles coiled for action.

Loyalty. It must have been utter loyalty that let a beast like this fall to a simple sword slash. Redwyn paused there for what seemed an age, rubbing back and forth on his dead pet. Eventually, he shot up, when the pain in his thighs was outbidding the sickly feeling in his throat.

At the door, he knocked abruptly and waited for the lock to come undone. For a second, there was nothing. Redwyn froze. The assassins must have been just outside, with his loyal guards slumped at their feet, their blood still sticky hot on the enemies" knives. Redwyn edged back a little, but even as he did so the doors swung open and the sentries jumped into view. One was stout and red-faced, hopefully from having delayed the lord so long, and hopefully not from having wine on the job. Redwyn saw no flask, and so looked to the other guard, who just seemed to regard him coldly. This didn't unease Redwyn, who knew the men were told to wear as blank an expression as they could, and only speak when ordered to.

"All quiet?" asked Redwyn, wanting to feel normal again.

The tall statue-like figure dipped his head, "Not a sound, your highness. It's like a graveyard in here."

"Isn't it just?" said Redwyn under his breath as he bustled past the pair of them down the hall.

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With the daylight floundering behind the hills, some servant had taken to putting the torches in place. Redwyn was glad to have the orange glow with him as he walked alone, having ordered only last week that he no longer wanted guards at his back. There was too much risk in having so many men with access to him, but not enough good soldiers to employ a personal guard. Redwyn judged himself a worthy fighter- so much so that he moved about the keep in a slight march, not wanting to give off the same aura his father had months before death had cornered him. Sir Arron was probably tapping his foot on the west balcony again, where they always met, but as usual would try to hide his impatience from his lord. He was an impeccably early man, always leaving twenty minutes before needed, so that Redwyn had to resort to announcing their meetings in surprise to keep him from waiting. Yet even then he would always be standing against the rail when Redwyn arrived.

Redwyn's feet slapped off the sand-tinted stone as he raced down a spiral staircase to the fifth level of the keep. Having lived here all his life, Redwyn knew the keep as well as any man, and had at least three separate ways to reach Sir Arron, so that his movements never became predictable. Sir Arron had warned him not to settle into any routine if he could help it. As a result he rarely ate the same meal every day, and seldom kept the same company. Sir Arron cautioned him not to have his men wandering about the castle; he had said a knowledgeable man is a dangerous man. His father had been advised the same, so that even guards who had served in the lower keep for twenty years had never seen the throne room.

Redwyn reached the bottom of the staircase and started along the long hallway that led to the western balconies. The moonlight in each window washed over him, and then he was gone beyond it. Moving faster now, he saw the world go white, then black, then white again. At the last window he paused, letting the moon spill all its milky splendour over one side of his face. He crept up to the sill, and peered down into the shady city. All around the castle there were houses. Big and small, one storied or two, the city of Arhand was teeming with them. At the far reaches of her borders, where high walls rose up to meet the desolation on the other side, the houses looked like the next breeze was going to fold them in half. Next to them, fully lit quarters seemed to hum throughout the night. Nobody ever got any sleep down there in the sailor streets. Redwyn called it the pit, and he knew he wasn't the only one. Nearer the keep, three levelled mansions sprang up in all directions; each of them seeming to tug at the castle's base like a spoiled child does his mother's dress. The only orange tinges to be seen there must have been guard lights, or maybe a nobleman had lit a candle and was sipping wine in his bed chamber. Even at night the city seemed alive, like a whole animal breathing in the world around it. Here though, the keep loomed up like a sick heart. Redwyn knew the city wasn't going to survive a war on all fronts, or a rebellion, or basically anything that demanded the rhubarbs, onions and potatoes of this festering soup to band together.

Somewhere in the street below, Redwyn knew a man might be cursing his name in a cup at some tavern, or a group of men might be hatching a plan to have him killed. Worse again, Redwyn knew someone could be behind him now, with their dagger poised to strike at any moment. He turned swiftly, but nobody was there. The hallway was empty, but foreboding nonetheless, so much so that he shuffled off to the nearby balconies. It was only later he realised none of the torches were lit.

Outside he found Sir Arron whistling to himself, and it was only as Redwyn drew near that the knight seemed to notice him.

"Ah. Your Grace, well met. Once more the honour is all mine," said the knight, flashing him a smile. The man was taller than Redwyn, and had more bulk about him too, so much so that he tried to lean as much as possible so as not to be imposing. Where Redwyn's hair was a chestnut shade, the older knight's was all silver. Each strand seemed to wave in unison as they stood there in the moonlight, like a midnight meadow someone might dream of. All around them the balcony was decorated with flowers and pottery, though here in the darkness they had no colour to offer the visitors.

"Sir Arron, again I apologise for my time keeping, I hope I have not given offence."

The knight laughed, "Offence? Impossible, your Highness. I was shocked and dismayed when your guards found me. I was just about to deal a killer blow in a game of Debacho against two men in the market quarter."

"You and your games, Sir Arron. Let me guess, you told them you had never played before?"

Sir Arron laughed harder. "Perish the thought, your Grace. That's what I tell the gamblers. These men were pirates by the looks of it. So of course, I told them I was rich."

Redwyn smiled. "Yes well, I hope Margon and his lot didn't give them too much of a fright."

"There is nobody who they don't frighten, my king. I see you had a nasty bit of business with them today."

"Margon told you then?" asked Redwyn nervously, forgetting he had absolute trust in the knight, who proceeded to shake his head.

"They didn't have to. I saw the blood on the sword. Once you showed up here, I was almost certain it wasn't you they had killed."

"Please, Sir Arron, the blood would have been a pale green, not red."

"Even so, your Highness. They say a king has purple blood, which sounds just as crazy as green."

Redwyn rested against the handrail. "But you've seen my blood, Sir. Remember when you taught me how to fight with sword and nearly broke my nose."

"How could I forget, my king? Your father nearly killed me for that one, but I think it's all OK now."

Redwyn knew he was lying. Every mirror told him his nose was still crooked and misshaped, though nobody had ever said it to him. He saw their eyes drift there now and then though, away from his much more admirable features.

The city didn't have the same buzz about it now, with its only sounds seeming to yawn up to their outlook rather than roar as they had done earlier. Bit by bit, the streets passed into shadow. Up on the balcony, one could argue that the city and its people, or the whole world even, was invisible.

"You know, I think they hate me?" he coughed, pulling his cloak up around his neck.

Sir Arron didn't laugh. "I'll tell you what they hate Redwyn; they hate war. They hate poverty, and disease, and most especially they hate uncertainty. I'd wager half the beggars don't mind being poor as long as they know where they stand."

"Hmm, maybe that's what you should say to the gamblers. Sounds like a bet I'd take."

Sir Arron straightened up. "It's change, my king. It terrifies them. How many wars have actually started on your account? A rebellion in the west, an uprising in the north, but which have been wars?"

"Yes, I know. But a rebellion is a seed Sir Arron. How many more seeds do they need before we find ourselves stuck in the thicket? Whatever is growing in this realm, it certainly isn't wholesome. It's going to be barbed and it's only a matter of time before we find ourselves choked."

Redwyn met Sir Arron's gaze. His face was stern, lined here and there with age, but even so he had warmth about him. He was the kind of man your father should be, but never would, because his duty meant he never married. Indeed Redwyn knew Sir Arron was alone, but more out of choice than some oath, which puzzled him even more. Each breath he took seemed calculated, but every time he laughed it felt like no man could be merrier. It was his honesty that drew Redwyn to him more than his other advisors.

"Your father trusted you to keep this realm together. You cannot fail him."

Redwyn darted his eyes away. "That's a lie, Sir. My father raised Owenn to be king. He raised me to be his advisor."

"And who better to be king than a man who knows what must be done?"

Redwyn clenched his fist. "Well yes I know what to do but I have not the strength to do it. This was Owenn's life, not mine. My father never meant for the crown to sit on my brow."

"He chose you to be king Redwyn. Open your eyes. Who told your brother about that sword in Lavastan? Who sent him away?"

"My father," whispered Redwyn, and suddenly it dawned on him what Sir Arron was inciting. In a flash his sword was out of the scabbard at his side and at the knight's neck. In his youth Sir Arron would have batted the blade away easily, and then stuck Redwyn in the stomach. But age was not on his side, nor was surprise.

"HOW DARE YOU? That is MY FATHER. This is treason."

Sir Arron's eyes bulged in that moment, but Redwyn didn't see any fear there. "Shut up boy! I have known your father far longer than you. Don't you forget who he was to me Redwyn?"

"You're calling him a murderer."

"I'm calling him what he was; a good king. Your brother would have wrecked the known world if he had come to power. King Venon would never have chosen him over you. He was obliged to show him love, but obligations only go so far."

"Well, what's your evidence then? Which of the men who killed my brother talked?" Redwyn asked, not letting his sword budge.

Sir Arron laughed. "Nobody talked to me boy. I knew your father's mind like a man knows his own. Those killers are long dead. Your father said nothing to me, but I could see it in every move he made. He had killed his own son, and guilt like that never fades."

"So my father died of a broken heart then?"

"No, he did not. His personal attendant told me your father was dying for months before your brother's demise. In fact, he was surprised the king even made it to the funeral, so poor was his condition. Guilt made him linger, Redwyn. It made him suffer a slower passing."

Redwyn stood for a while saying nothing. A part of him knew the knight wasn't lying. Eventually, he sheathed his sword.

He remembered the last few months of his father's life, when he would call him to his bed chamber to tell him the ways of politics even when he was too ill to move. Owenn had been a great warrior, but his father had saved things like finances and scripture for Redwyn. There wasn't a thing he didn't know about the royal families or the noble houses. If he had a firm heart somewhere in his chest, he could rule with ease. But that's what Redwyn lacked. He was afraid of being king. Choices terrified him, and dulled his sharp mind to nothing more than a fool.

"You don't need a bold heart, your Highness. Your father never had a heart like mine, but he was still king," said the knight, seemingly knowing what Redwyn was thinking.

"I don't know whether to trust you on this Sir Arron. But then, have I ever had reason to doubt you? Whatever happened, I have inherited this world and I must do what I can. It starts with tomorrow."

Sir Arron smiled. "Ah yes, the banquet. So I take it you are announcing your choice then. Will Elanna be your bride?"

"Perhaps, she is a visage of course; a real beauty. Sara from Lavastan has always been kind to me when she visits, but I ought to choose for the realm, shouldn't I?"

Sir Arron laughed harder than normal, and clapped a hand onto Redwyn's back, so vigorously that he had to grab the handrail for support.

"What's so funny?"

"Nothing, my king. It's just you sounded just like your father there. He would have said the same."

"So my father married for the realm then too, that is, he never really loved my mother?" asked Redwyn frowning.

Sir Arron peered out into the sky, where the clouds were rolling back to show the first of the night's stars. "No, your father was a romantic. Your grandsire tried to strangle him when he picked Renya, who came from a small realm called Vardar which is now part of the south. It might have given us a war. Instead, it gave us you and Owenn. I miss your mother Redwyn; she was good to all of us."

Redwyn thought of his mother now, with her long dark hair and her blue dresses, which showed the colours of her first love: the sea. When she had died he was just learning how to ride a horse. In fact he was in his saddle when he heard she had succumbed in childbirth. Their would-be sister hadn't made it either. That left just the men in the family, and the keep was a lot colder after that.

"My father had an easy choice. Didn't you once tell me my mother's kingdom was the only one who had not pledged themselves to the king? And he loved her."

Redwyn paused. "I love none of these women, Sir Arron," he lied. "These are dangerous odds."

Sir Arron turned from the balcony towards him. "Oh, Redwyn, you do not have the heart for my gambling games I feel. What makes these odds so dangerous?"

Redwyn stood puzzled. "Why everything does, good Sir. Who then should I pick?" he asked, his throat starting to scratch again the wind.

The knight caught his eyes again. "You pick the one with the most swords of course. "

The words hung in the air for a moment, sounding so crude but floating with an air of reason that could not be denied.

"Good advice as always, Sir Arron. I should get back. This feast will require the best of me, so tonight my sleep is paramount. My throat feels like someone is taking an axe to it"

The knight nodded. "Allow me to walk you back, my king. You should not walk these halls alone so late; nobody should."

"Very well, Sir Arron, let us go back the way I came," said Redwyn, gesturing to the hallway on the left.

The knight agreed, and was about to enter the corridor when he froze in his place.

"There are no torches lit, your Highness," he mumbled without averting his eyes.

"Worry not, dear friend. They were not lit this evening. You must have been here too early to notice the darkness."

Sir Arron turned slightly white. "I was here early, my king. But they were burning then."

Redwyn felt a breath sucked out of his chest. "But I was alone. It must be a mistake, or worse, a diversion. We should go this way, Sir Arron."

Sir Arron backed away from the hallway. "No, my king, we should not. The air is heavy in this corridor. It is not welcoming us. There are more evil things in this keep than assassins, if we are to believe the tales."

Redwyn didn't believe the tales, since they spoke of ghosts, ghouls and other nightmarish things. Even so, he could feel this wasn't an argument he was going to win.

"Fine then, let us take the stairs here. The way is bright and the air is always fresh in the tower. Come along, I am very weary."

Colour returned to Sir Arron's face as he hurried past him. Redwyn cast one last look to the hallway entrance, but there was nothing but blackness, so he raced after Sir Arron.

Their walk back was quiet. Both were occupied with their thoughts, and Redwyn knew he at least was in need of a good sleep. He was happy to not have any correspondence to complete, with all of the feast work having been finished weeks ago. Outside his door, Sir Arron bid his farewell. Redwyn had his handle on the door, which was shouldered either side by his guards, when he called back to Sir Arron.

"Earlier, you asked was I picking Elanna of Highden. I take it they have the most swords then?"

The knight grinned. "Me and my games, Redwyn, that's all I have."

Redwyn hesitated. "And Lavastan, that is, if I chose Sara. Do they have many swords?"

He wanted Levastan to have a lot of swords. Every bit of them wished they were the greatest army in history, so that he could choose and pretend it was all political.

Sir Arron chuckled. "I would tell you they have some mythical blade Redwyn, but that's a lie best told once."

"Yes...well...I'll sleep on the decision," answered Redwyn, unsatisfied with the answer.

"Goodnight, my king," hailed the knight, and then leapt around the corner.

"Goodnight, uncle," whispered Redwyn, and then opened the door to his bed chambers.