And Vengeful Kings Part 2
Escetir's territory was over half the size of Camelot, its capitol Airaldii was strategically centered and far enough away from its borders to prepare for any attack from any side. The king's castle, aptly named Graeme Longe with its grey brick and stone and few windows, formidably towered above the towns around it, more a symbol of fear than security. Its halls were equally grey and dark and almost always seemed to be choked with dread and trepidation for near a decade. The throne room was made even darker though, its plain glass windows draped closed to keep the sunlight out and from warming the place. Sitting on the throne and silently reading a message, this was just how Escetir's newest king preferred it. His piercing dark eyes studied the letter with intent as he brushed a strand of mostly brown hair from his weathered face. The captain of his elite Black Guard was seated in a chair adjacent him, his warrior-like physique somewhat relaxed, his calculating gaze eying him with anticipation while gently swirling wine in a fine pewter goblet.
King Lot Rynart, uncle of the late King Cenred, hadn't receive an invitation to Queen Guinevere's coronation. He didn't expect one. As an enemy of Camelot, he knew a summons would never come. But he and the rest of Airaldii couldn't miss the royal announcement trumpeted from his own ramparts a few days earlier and he wasn't surprised to hear of Pendragon's choice of queen.
He'd heard the rumors of their affair from his own spies years ago and the news pleased him. A servant with no experience nor royal blood was sure to destabilize his adversary's kingdom. And just today, his spies have confirmed even better news. Though still vexed over the incident now a fortnight past, Lot managed to widen his smile and read the letter again.
"Well, sire?" Sir Bernewyn asked a moment, placing his goblet on the small serving stand beside it and then stroking his closely shaved beard. Forthright and keenly witted, his son-in-law was a few years younger than Pendragon and sometimes just as impatient. But he was calculating and bold.
Lot was satisfied that Bernewyn would never use the term "father" when speaking openly to him, not even in private. Knowing that he'd never hear the word again with his own son's voice, Lot would hear it from no other man. His stony glare of displeasure had cut deep enough the first time Bernewyn had used the familial term.
"They've indeed confirmed that Pendragon took refuge in Ealdor a fortnight ago." The words bristled under his skin as Lot carefully closed the scroll in his large, calloused hands and rose from his fur-lined chair, his height imposing and shoulders broad. Two strides brought him before the iron-grated fire by the throne, the heat touching his skin, warming his leather tunic and trousers. The scroll still in hand, he placed that arm behind his back and clasped the wrist with the other. "The soldiers that crossed the border in search of him had terrorized the villagers. Set fires to it. Nearly destroyed it."
He rounded the fire pit slowly and allowed his gaze to become mesmerized by the dance of the flames. Dark brown hair lightly streaked with silver fell past his shoulders, and the first signs of greying spotted the edges of his carefully groomed beard and mustache. Just under two meters tall—a favorable characteristic of the men in his family—he towered over most men, and as natural as that had always been, it pleased him that Bernewyn, and nearly everyone else, had to look up to meet his eyes.
"Early reports claim the incursion was led by Pendragon's uncle and Southron mercenaries," Bernewyn informed, his blue eyes tracking the king's slow circle of the pit. "And this occurred under Morgana's rule—not Arthur's." Few people had the guts to challenge Lot and Bernewyn was one of them, an agreeable trait for the man who married his daughter—as long as he kept his place.
"A trivial distinction," Lot snarled without looking away from the flames. "Still a Pendragon."
"My lord, all the villagers claimed that Arthur and one of our own—Merlin, if I recall—convinced most of them to hide in the nearby caves, saving many lives. Only a few remained behind and could not contain the many fires that were set." Bernewyn continued to advocate for his enemy, deliberating through the circumstances that Pendragon had probably also reasoned out.
"That matters little in the scheme of things, I'm afraid," Lot said, not persuaded. "Pendragon violated the treaty and I'm going to raise hell with Camelot because of it."
"Well then," he said, ceasing his defense. "Let us not forget that tongues wagged about Pendragon defending Ealdor against Kenan a few years back. They were still our citizens."
"Yes, that warlord and his small band of brigands. I haven't. My nephew cared very little for the border villages, but that should not have stopped him from demanding recompense when Pendragon broke treaty then."
Exiled from Airaldii by his brother before Cenred came to power, Lot still had eyes and ears telling him the happenings in court from the day he left. His nephew had been a dark and troubled boy all his life and despite the many times Lot had spent with him to instill some sense of honor. Cenred had grown up as a privileged yet volatile youth, unpredictable and dangerous; their relationship had never been warm. "What a fool he turned out to be."
Lot pulled his eyes away from the flames to glance at two white banners hanging high behind his throne, the proud emblem of a serpent writhing on each. A serpent can strangle a dragon, he believed in his heart, staring at them so intently that they seemed to come to life and slither upon the cloth. Or drown it in deep waters. "It's time Pendragon answered for violating our treaty."
"No one would dispute your grievances against Camelot, my lord." Bernewyn joined him by the fire pit and spread his hands above it, the crackle of wood conceding to flame and filling the silence.
Banished eight years ago to Cyneheard Wymane, a smaller castle southeast of the Feorre mountain range, Lot and his family had traveled two arduous weeks to the luxurious estate, angry and grieved all the same. Along with a small retinue of courtiers and servants, they'd been confined to the ample royal grounds. Guards that had once been under their command kept them imprisoned and detracted from the beauty and freedom of the estate. Falsely accused of plotting against his distrustful brother and then wrongfully exiled, those had been bitter times for a soldier of his caliber—the kingdom he loved snatched from his reach and his reputation spoiled. Retaining the privilege of royalty, the luxury of a home, and the comfort of family, he was still imprisoned and it'd stung nonetheless.
Family.
The scroll crinkled in Lot's crushing grip, an ache burning in his soul. In that gilded cage, Johan succumbed to diphtheria and Eleanor wilted like a flower until she was gone not long after. Her death was more pain to endure than that of his only son, he having lost hope that the frail lad would ever mend. Gisella was the only precious thing left to him really.
Everything dies.
The king's eyes drifted down to the high chair of Escetir. The solid, elaborately carved throne had been polished by generations of servants and still managed to glisten in the dark from the cast of the fire light. A thick wolf's hide, killed by him at the height of the previous winter, served as a cushion for the king. Until word came of Cenred's death, he'd wondered if he would ever see his beloved Airaldii and the great throne again.
"That coward," Bernewyn scoffed, dragging Lot's thoughts out of memories and back into the present. "Running from a girl."
Whatever Bernewyn had said was lost on him, for he'd been dwelling on years gone past. But as Bernewyn's words coalesced into meaning, Lot turned to his son-in-law, shifting his stance and drawing his thick brows together.
"Do you not recall Cenred's alliance with Morgause?" he asked, his deep voice filling the empty hall and resonating with reproof. "He practically handed the kingdom to that 'girl'." Lot's jaw tightened as he smacked the scroll against his palm, heat rising in his cheeks. He pointed the scroll at Bernewyn. "That 'girl' bewitched and murdered my nephew, cursed our army of thousands, and then overthrew another great kingdom with her so-called Immortal Army. Everything dies, boy." Lot's voice dropped, his gaze distant. "Even those most beloved."
As quickly as it had risen and fed off his bitterness, Lot buried his sorrow once again and cast Bernewyn a hard stare. "So do not be deceived, boy. Women can be just as ruthless as men and Morgause's sister is no different. Lady Morgana is a powerful sorceress not to be underestimated. That 'girl' took Camelot twice."
The captain, as expected, held his own. "And lost it twice."
"Indeed," Lot scowled, taking a deep breath. "It's hard to keep a thing taken by force if you don't have the fortitude to hold it. She did us a favor."
"King Arthur has powerful allies, sire."
The parchment crinkled again as Lot ground his teeth, setting his jaw. "So do we, but we can always use more. Send scouts to search for Morgana Pendragon. I would like a word with her. Make sure they're well-armed, and for added protection, take the magician with them just to be sure."
"You believe the reports about the Great Dragon?"
"I have no reason not to. But she's an enemy of Camelot as well—perhaps we can work together."
"I'll ensure your orders are followed to the letter, sire."
Orders. He'd been king for only two short years and commanding others came naturally to him. But he'd inherited a weak throne upon his ascension: he had no army, dwindled resources, and a mostly depleted treasury—a perfect start for a ruinous reign, invasion from enemies from without, or a coup from enemies within. Airaldii was vulnerable and he recognized his somewhat inexperience as a sovereign. He was a military man much aware of his own weaknesses and intentionally surrounded himself with men of quality; men who were as fiercely protective of Escetir as he was, those with a backbone enough to help raise his kingdom from its knees.
The king seated himself on the throne again. "Summon a scribe. We'll dispatch an emissary to Camelot with the facts and my demands." Draping his arms on the armrests, the corner of Lot's mouth twitched upward in a half smile. "Pendragon is dealing with something different now, Berne."
"What will you demand for recompense?"
"Some gold and what is rightfully mine."
"The Forest of Ascetir," Bernewyn stated.
"Escetir Forest," Lot corrected almost with a growl.
Claiming foul play was only a stepping stone to what Lot truly desired. He'd despised the Pendragons ever since the treaty that was struck between King Gideon and King Uther over a decade ago that had cost them Escetir Forest. It was renamed The Forest of Ascetir by the Pendragons upon the sealing of the accord and this had infuriated Lot even more.
He had many fond memories of that forest: playing in it as a small lad, hunting in it as young boy, marching through it as a squire. He'd even kissed a girl for the first time in those woods. What made it even more special was that Escetir Forest had once extended their borders to the back door of Camelot proper. Upon the signing of the treaty a decade ago, the arm of their territory had been severed and had only increased the size of their enemy's reach towards them. Gideon had been a fool and Lot savored the opportunity to take it back.
"Ten thousand pieces of gold and Escetir Forest. Nothing less."
Bernewyn shook his head. "Audacious, my lord. Pendragon will refuse."
"If he does, he tempts war and Camelot is barely recovered from their battle with Morgana and King Helios. Trust me, Berne. He'll return every parcel of that forest, and Escetir will once again become the territory of my kingdom."
