A/N: Hi everyone! I finally managed to write the next chapter of this story. I know I kept you waiting for too long and I'm terribly sorry for that. I couldn't find the right way to put my ideas into words so everything I wrote down seemed awful. I know this chapter might have some flaws, so please, if you want, let me know what you think.
Nevertheless, I hope you'll enjoy it. Thank you for your patience.
- Kiara
Chapter 8
Drastic Measures
«… and that's why», Arslan concluded, turning towards his counselors, «That those lands which will result beyond the share each one is allowed to possess will be requestioned and redistributed to the poorest families».
Silence fell upon the room. Elam looked around, seeking in the Council members a sign of approval. Adel was the first one to intervene.
«This is the wiser thing to do right now. I support His Majesty's decision!», the young man exclaimed enthusiastically lifting his right arm showing his approval. For a few seconds no one moved. Arslan lowered his gaze. He knew that his proposal, even more radical than the previous, would have obtained little success. Anyway, one by one, the counselors began raising their arms. Elam smiled satisfied. Cyrus was the last one to approve the sovereign's proposal. He lifted his arm slowly, as if it had suddenly become too heavy. His eyes sparked with anger.
Lord Cyrus crossed the corridors quickly. Redistribute lands? The king had reached the limit. Never in the history of Pars the noble landowners had had to suffer such restrictions. He had to do something, now. He retrieved the black hood and climbed down the trapdoor. He reached quickly the door of the round underground room where a guard was awaiting. He was about to grab the handle but he realized that another man was lingering in the dark. He moved a step forward and took off the hood covering his head. Cyrus recognized one of the lackeys that he had charged with spreading the dissatisfaction at Court. The man bowed slightly and got closer to the parsian nobleman. He whispered a few words into his hear, enough to make Cyrus' eyes ignite with even more violent rage. The man moved away and Cyrus entered the room, slamming the door behind his back.
His companions fell silent seeing how furious Lord Cyrus was. The noble councilman took his place in the circle and took off the black hood with a resolute gesture.
«Do you know who's going to own your lands?!», he started yelling. No one dared to propose hypothesis. «Do you know?!», the man urged. «Nothing but wretches!», he exclaimed moving some steps around the small stone altar. No one of the members of the group spoke. Cyrus stopped abruptly, turning towards his companions again.
«And do you want to know why last evening our sovereign was late for the Moon Celebration?», he asked lowering his voice. Once again, silence filled the room. The nobleman moved some more steps back and forth.
«I'll tell you!», he shouted tapping a hand on his chest. «While we, his subjects, were waiting to honor one of the most important celebrations of our reign, our king was seen walking away with that savage!»
«The lusitanians' Commander?», a man asked interrupting Cyrus' fierce outburst. He stopped and pointed his burning eyes to his companion. He got threatening closer and the poor man thought he had made a great mistake.
«Exactly», the Lord answered instead.
«Disgraceful!», another one exclaimed, gaining yells of approval from the others. Cyrus let the men express their disappointment, the he lifted his arm demanding silence.
«We have no choice at this point…», he started saying. «The solution has to be drastic», the nobleman sentenced. The other men looked around. Some of them realized what Cyrus was implying, others hoped he wouldn't go that far, pervaded as he was with anger.
The noble councilman moved behind the stone altar and stared into the eyes of every single one in his group. For a moment, it seemed calmness had regained control of his body. He took a deep breath and let out few, fatal words.
«The king must die».
A frozen silence fell upon the room. Nobody dared to say anything. Cyrus was motionless, as if he was made of stone, his gaze was fixed, intense. He inserted his hand into the pocket of the pants he was wearing and took out a golden dagger richly decorated. He lifted the sleeve that was covering his right arm and with the dagger he cut the skin of his wrist, until a drop of scarlet red blood dripped on the circular stone sheet of the altar. His face remained motionless. Cyrus turned to the man at his right and handed him the dagger.
«We are brothers», the nobleman said. His voice was calm, his eyes still. He seemed hypnotized. «Let's seal our deal with blood. No one will be able to get in our way».
The man took the dagger and got closer to the altar, trembling. He glanced at Lord Cyrus, who was clearly waiting for his companion to mimic his gesture. The man took a deep breath, then he used the blade to cut his wrist. The others did the same.
The pact was sealed.
Étoile threw herself against Malakai twirling her sword in the air. The knight blocked the blow with a quick move and retreated a few steps, then he rushed again against the commander. The girl moved away swiftly and lowered the sword on Malakai's head. The man responded with his own weapon. The blades collided shining. Étoile twirled and with her leg she hit Malakai's knee, forcing him to bend on the ground. The girl pointed her sword at his neck. They looked into each other's eyes, trying to catch their breath.
A few seconds passed, then Étoile withdrew the sword and headed towards the stone counter on which stood a jug full of water. Malakai watched as she walked away. He knew something was upsetting the young commander. The man got up and reached the counter. He grabbed the jug and poured its content into two goblets, handing one to Étoile. She accepted it without saying a word.
«Is everything alright?», he asked suddenly.
Étoile turned towards the man to answer him, but in that exact moment, Arslan, accompanied by Elam and Daryun, appeared in the corridor that articulated behind his back. Their gazes couldn't help but meet, but Étoile lowered immediately her eyes. She put the goblet on the stone counter and walked away in silence. Malakai followed her with his eyes, confused. Then he turned to the sovereign. Arslan kept walking. His face betrayed all this distress.
He had thought about it a lot of times, he couldn't deny it. Especially in those last few days. He had imagined how it would have been to hold her, caressing her face, feeling her warmth. The images were so vivid he could almost feel her lips touching his.
But he hadn't expected Étoile's reaction to be so determined and opposite. It seemed he had finally managed to reach through her heart, but just when everything seemed so perfect, in that very moment, the magic shattered.
That night the king hadn't been able to sleep. He had gone back to the palace, he had officiated the Moonlight Celebration, his duty as sovereign, then he had retired in his rooms and didn't want to talk to anyone until the next morning. He wanted to understand where he had mistaken, what did he do to distance her so much.
He felt the need to talk to her, to explain his reasons, but Étoile wasn't going to let that happen. The girl had avoided the sovereign the whole day. She wasn't ready to face him.
That night, she couldn't sleep. She found solace in thinking that reject Arslan was the wiser and more rational choice. But she couldn't ignore that her heart was pushing her towards the opposite direction.
That day she had worked hard to prevent their eyes from meeting: she wouldn't have been able to confront him. Arslan, on the other hand, had done nothing but look for her: he couldn't bear to live hanging in the balance.
The king managed to find her in the inner garden, while, sitting on the rim of the central fountain, she watched absorbed the gushes of water. Arslan got closer to her, determined not to miss that occasion.
«Étoile!», he called, running towards her. The girl turned abruptly and moved to flee, but the sovereign grabbed her wrist, blocking her.
«Let me go!», the young woman ordered trying to wiggle out. Arslan's gaze was as still and decisive as his grip.
«Please…», she begged.
«We need to talk», the young man answered. Étoile shook her head.
«No, that's not true. Nothing happened. We have nothing to talk about», Étoile affirmed. Arslan stretched out his other hand and grabbed her arms. He stared intensely into her eyes. For a few moments they stood motionless.
«Étoile…»
«Your Majesty!»
A male voice echoed among the colonnades. Arslan couldn't hold back an annoyed sigh. He let Étoile go, and she lowered her eyes, embarrassed.
«What's the matter?», he asked turning to the young massager who was running towards him.
«Majesty…», the young man repeated panting. «A message from Peshawar, My Lord. Narsus requires your aid!»
Arslan's face stiffened. Perfect timing, he thought. He turned to Étoile, who was still unable to look into his eyes.
«I have to go», he said gritting his teeth. «But we'll talk later…», he reassured her. Then, he followed the young massager.
The letter that Narsus had sent laid open on the king's desk. Arslan sat on his chair, in front of him were Daryun, Farangis, Adel and Cyrus.
«The matter is serious…», Daryun intervened.
«Without doubt», Cyrus underlined. «Peshawar is our most western fortress, if it falls…»
«What shall we do, Majesty?», Farangis asked.
Arslan stared at the letter for a few more seconds. A mysterious group of men, divided into five squadrons, had attacked the fortress. The men of Peshawar had managed to push them back, but the casualties and the damages had persuaded Narsus to ask for immediate backup. That's what the strategist had written.
«Elam, can you confirm this is Narsus' handwriting?», the king asked handing the young man the parchment. After all the attempts to destabilize his reign, Arslan wouldn't have been surprised to find out the letter was a fake.
«I'm sure. The handwriting is Lord Narsus'», Elam asserted.
«Then there's no doubt», Arslan concluded. «Narsus wouldn't have asked for help if it wasn't necessary. «We're leaving within midnight».
Daryun was charged to organize the troops. The men gathered in the square in front of the Palace, surrounded by a crowd of curious people. The soldiers were divided into three groups: infantry, cavalry and Royal Guard. The Knight in Black would have accompanied the sovereign, while Elam and Farangis had been entrusted with the supervision of the Palace.
Everything was settled. The men were armed, the torches lighted. Arslan made his entrance into the square. The soldiers greeted him raising their swords and spears. The crowd yelled. The king smiled and waved a hand at them.
«We'll be back as soon as possible!», he exclaimed to the multitude. He reached the front of the troops, where Daryun was waiting for him. He put on the helmet the man handed him and grabbed the reins. He lifted his arm and with a shout he ordered his men to move.
Before departing at full gallop, he turned back, searching with his eyes for the rooms where Étoile was staying.
The young Lusitanian watched as he twirled his sword in the air and disappeared at a gallop beyond the walls of Ecbatana.
They rode restlessly for almost two hours. The more the time passed, the more the king kept asking himself what kind of threat could be now looming over his reign. The torches spread their long flames into the night, guiding the parsian soldiers. The moon was obscured by large black clouds. It wasn't long before it started raining.
The troops reached quickly the first mountain range separating them from Peshawar. The only way to cross it, was a narrow path on the edge of a long and tight valley. Daryun cursed. The terrain was rocky and slippery and the pouring rain surely didn't make things better. The Knight in Black moved to the end of the troops to make sure no one, distracted by darkness and rain, was left behind. The knights clambered the challenging path with their steeds. Silence was heavy. The men didn't dare to say a word, concentrated as they were to place their feet where the soil would have supported them.
It was sudden and unexpected. A sharp hiss tore the air. A man cried and fell from his horse, rolling down the cliff opening on the edge of the trail. Other hisses interrupted the regular pouring of the rain and just as many arrows fell on the men from the bushes that stood above the crest of the mountains.
«It's an ambush!», a man shouted before collapsing on the ground, with an arrow jabbed in his chest.
Arslan stopped and turned to his troops. He unsheathed his sword and ordered his men to withdraw. They had no chance to fight and win on such fragmented and slippery terrain. Daryun started waving the spear to show the soldiers to retreat.
It was too late. Chaos ruled among the troopers. Some of them unsheathed their swords, other sought shelter under the spurs of rock. Some of the torches that had fallen on the ground had extinguished in the puddles, but some others had set on fire the shrubs that protrude beyond the precipice.
The flood of arrows that had hit the soldiers stopped for a moment. Arslan took advantage of it to reconquer his men's attention.
«Listen to me!», he shouted. «We have to withdraw!»
The king's word echoed on the rocks. There was a moment of silence, then, from above the rocky crest, a yell broke the air. Dozens of men appeared from the shrubs that stood above the path. In a moment they were against the royal troops. Arslan ordered the men to react, but most of them were overwhelmed by the surprise attack.
Daryun threw himself into the multitude, trying not to lose sight of the sovereign, who was a few meters away from him, at the front of the shattered lines. It wasn't easy: those men were experts, and their battling style was the same that was taught to the recruits of the parsian army. This allowed them to anticipate every move Arslan's soldiers attacked them with, making them useless.
The king fought with all his strength. He twirled his sword with extreme precision and every blow was infallible. However, he tried to avoid wounding fatally his aggressors. Their weapons, their movements, their attacks left no room for doubts: they were men of the parsian army. Arslan was sure of it. That's why he couldn't persuade himself to kill them. Someone had convinced them to rebel, to attack their own comrades. But who? All of this did nothing but worsen the situation. The chaos ruling in the young sovereign's mind mirrored the devastation surrounding him. Lifeless bodies on the ground, agonizing horses, blood, torn off shrubs, shattered torches. The king's gaze lingered on the slaughter of his troops a moment too late, and an arrow hissed in the air.
Suddenly, a dull sound echoed between the rocks. From above the mountain, a man had put to the mouth a long curved horn and had blown in it to call back his subordinates. The aggressors quickly obeyed their commander and clambering among the shrubs they reached the top of the rocks, disappearing beyond the vegetation.
Daryun looked around. Just a few dozens of men were still on their horses' saddle. Someone stood up, leaning against their own spears. Someone else was sitting on the ground. The eyes of the Knight in Black tried to locate the king among the confusion, but it was useless.
«Your Majesty!», he called, but only the wounded's laments answered him. «Majesty!», he shouted again dismounting his horse. He paved his way among the corpses and tried to reach what once was the head of their troops. «Your Majesty! Answer me!», but again, nothing more than dull cries and curses. The ones who were still conscious understood from Daryun's glassy and fixed gaze that the situation was serious.
«Did some of you see His Majesty?!», the knight asked. «Your Majesty! Majesty!», he kept calling loudly, without getting any answer.
The men seemed dazed. Nobody said a word, not even a lament anymore. Daryun kept wandering from a trail's end to the other, searching for Arslan in vain. His heart was bursting in his chest.
No one noticed, but it had stopped raining.
A/N: thanks for reading! Review to let me know what you think about it!
- Kiara