Daylon did not know exactly what plans the four surviving monarchs of the great kingdoms had for the lofty towers and flower-bedecked open plazas of the city of Ithra, but he feared for the most civilized city in the world, the capital of the Kingdom of Flames. Of the five great kingdoms of Garn, Ithrace had always produced the most artistic genius. Authors of Ithrace had penned half of the books in Daylons library, and Ithra was a well-known spawning ground for talented young painters, musicians, playwrights, poets, and actors, despite also providing refuge for thieves, mountebanks, whores, and every other form of unsavoury humanity imaginable.
There had always been five great kingdoms, and now that flame was ash only four remained Sandura, Metros, Zindaros, and Ilcomen and no man could anticipate how history would judge what had occurred this day. Daylon realised his mind was racing; he was barely able to focus on the moment, let alone the long-term political consequences of the horror surrounding him. It was as his father had said to him years ago; there are times when all one can do is stand still and breathe.
Daylon resisted letting out a long sigh of regret. Somewhere up the hill from where he stood, Steveren Langene, king of Ithrace, known to all as Firemane, lifelong friend to any man of good heart, ally of Daylon and a host of others, was being bound in iron shackles and cuffs by men hed once called comrades, to be marched up onto the makeshift platform his brother kings had ordered constructed for this farce.
Daylon turned his mind from the coming horrors and his revulsion at his own part in todays treachery and searched for somewhere to wash the battle from his face. He found a supply wagon overturned, its horses dead in their traces, but somehow a water barrel had conspired to remain mostly upright. Using his belt knife he cut away the waxed canvas cover and stuck his head into the cool, clean water. He drank, and came up sputtering, wiping the days blood and dirt from his face. He stood staring at the water as it rippled and calmed. It was the only thing Daylon could see that wasnt covered in death; all around him, the mud of the battlefield was awash in piss, shit, and blood, pieces of what had once been brave men, and the muck covered banners of fools.
HIS LIFE HAD BEEN SCARRED by battle and death. Married twice before he was thirty five, Daylon had deeply loved his first wife, but she died in childbirth in their third year of marriage. He didnt care much for his current wife, but she had brought a strong alliance and a fair dowry, and despite being vapid and silly, she had a strong young body he enjoyed and she was already expecting his first child. The promise of an heir was the one bright hope in his life at present.
He forced his attention from dark thoughts and saw a familiar figure approaching. My lord, said Rodrigo Bavangine, Baron of the Copper Hills, you have survived.
The day is young, replied Daylon, and theres still treachery in abundance. Keep hope. You may yet be able to pay court to my young widow.
A black jest, said Rodrigo. Too many good companions lie befouled in their own entrails, while men I would not piss on were they afire celebrate this day.
Tis ever thus, Rodrigo. Daylon studied his old friend. The Baron of the Copper Hills was a dark-haired man with startling blue eyes. At court he wore his hair long, oiled and curled, but now had it gathered up in a bright red head cloth designed to keep it under his helm in battle. He was pale of complexion, like most people from the foggy and cloud-shrouded land he ruled. Daylon had always found it odd that they had become close, as Daylon was a man of deep consideration and Rodrigo seemed to barely consider the consequences of his impulses, but he knew Rodrigos moods as well as he knew his own. He saw the mans face and knew without words they were of like mind. Both men wondered if the battle would have swung the other way had they stood with Steveren rather than opposed him.
Rodrigo narrowed his pale eyes and moved closer to speak quietly, though there was no living man within a dozen paces. I can tell you this one thing, Daylon: from this day forward I shall never take to my bed without the benefit of a strong drink or a young arse, most likely both, and sleep a night without haunting. This business will bring more destruction, not less as was promised.
Daylon leaned against the frame of the wagon watching the carpenters finishing up the executioners platform and turned to look at his old friend.
Rodrigo recognised his expression and manner. You are a man of ideals, Daylon, so you need justification. Therein lies the cause of your distress.
I am a far simpler man, Rodrigo. I merely picked the side I knew would win.
And I followed you.
As did others, said Daylon, but I ordered no oathman, nor asked friend nor ally, to serve at my whim. Any could have said no.
Rodrigo smiled, and it was a bitter look he gave to his friend. Aye, Daylon, and thats the evil genius of it. Its a gift you have. No man in your orbit would oppose your counsel. You are too versed in the games of power for me not to heed your wisdom, even to serve foul cause.