K ing Bram Henley rode his horse into the center of the village, his keen edged sword held high. The lesser folk parted for their lord and his accompaniment of knights. A great fire waited to be kindled, and in the center of the wood stood three men tied to an upright log, their bodies stripped naked and bleeding from many thin wounds.
Bram slowed his horse as the last made way, revealing two priests dressed in the black robes of the roaring lion. They nodded their heads to their lord, but did not bow, which would have irritated him even if he hadn’t already been furious.
“What travesty occurs in my realm?” he asked. His voice thundered through the clearing. He was an imposing man, with broad shoulders, long black hair, and a stern face marred by a single scar from eye to chin, self-cut in the tradition of his father’s line. His naked blade revealed just how deep his fury went. He pointed it at the nearest priest, demanding an explanation.
“These men have defied the will of Karak,” said the first. Bram recognized him as a high-ranking priest of Ker, a chubby man named Gill. His words dripped like honey but his fingers smelled of blood.
“And how have they done so?” Bram asked.
Gill puffed out his chest and gestured to the crowd, and it was to them he answered. The exaggerated movements of his arms rang bells attached to the bottom of his robes.
“We have but one lord in all of Dezrel, and he is Melorak, the lion of Karak, the voice of his thunder, the interpreter of his mighty roar. Who here would doubt Karak’s power, or must his armies march through our nation once more?”
Bram’s eyes narrowed, but he kept his tongue. Let the priest have his speech, so long as he got around to his point. So far, the crowd was going along, but he sensed they did so not out of faith, but out of a desire to see the fire burn.
“These men would not swear oaths to Karak,” Gill continued, his voice shrieking into a higher pitch. “They would swindle the good, meek people of this village, and then deny their god, spit in his face, and exalt a man above all. Who here could question their guilt, or their punishment?”
The priest beside him shouted, “Praise be to Karak!” and a dozen or so onlookers joined in. Bram urged his horse closer to the pyre and nodded to the centermost man, who did not seem afraid, only royally pissed.
“Is what he says true?” Bram asked.
“We’re tax collectors, milord,” the man said. “And that viper demanded a tithe. I told him we could not, for the money was not ours to give, but yours, and not even a priest steals money from his lord.”
“Who is lord but our great lord, Karak?” Gill shouted. Bram turned on him.
“You would steal from my treasury, then murder those who would stop your thievery?” he asked. Gill’s eyes widened in exaggerated shock.
“I am a servant of our great god, and am most humble to be in his service,” he said. “You dare insult me, even you, King Bram, knowing that an insult to a high priest is an insult to Karak himself?”
Bram glanced about. The crowd was eating up every word, though many looked nervous at the implied threat.
Damn sheep, thought Bram.
“Perhaps these men did offer insult,” Bram said. “But I know of no laws that decree death to those who might affront Karak. We are a free people, and have been ever since the brothers’ war.”
“There is a new law!” Gill shouted. “A law elevating the common man to equality among kings. A law of gods, a law of Karak, and let true justice cover Dezrel in its righteous fury!”
The crowd cheered. As they did, Gill spoke softer, so that only Bram could hear.
“Our judgment sweeps across this land,” he said. “You would be wise to recognize and obey.”
Bram sheathed his sword and nodded for his knights to leave.
“I have a message for your god,” he said as he spun his horse about, and village men tossed torches onto the dry hay that surrounded the pyre. “Tell him that you, Gilliam Frey, are responsible for King Henley finally seeing the truth of Karak.”
Gill beamed.
“Praise be to Karak,” he shouted as Bram rode into the distance.
“Ride hard,” Bram said to Sir Ian Millar, his most trusted warrior. “We must reach Angkar before dusk.”
“What of the priests?” the knight asked as he kicked his mount’s sides.
“To the Abyss with them,” Bram said, hurling a curse to the wind as they rode across the yellow grass.
“W ake Loreina,” Bram said as he stormed through the door of his tower. “Bring her to the Eye. Oh, and Ian…be quiet about it.”
The knight struck his chest with his fist and bowed.
“Everywhere the Lion has ears,” the king muttered as he stripped off his riding gear. His room was poorly furnished, another relic of his family’s many odd traditions. The rest of the castle was gilded, polished, and overflowing with pretensions of wealth. But there in his tower, his room, he had a bed, a chest, and a mirror, all made of plain wood and glass. He paced the room, trying to calm down but knowing he wouldn’t. Too many were wresting control of his kingdom away from him. Four generations his family had reigned. He had no intentions of being the last Henley. Soon Loreina and Ian would be at the Eye, and he took several deep breaths to slow his heart and calm his nerves.
Bram kept his sword buckled to his waist. The world had grown dangerous as of late, and now he found himself on the side of the apparent loser of the spiritual war sweeping across Dezrel. What if some mad priest tried to gain the favor of his god by coming after him?
“Everywhere,” said the king, opening the door. “Goddamn everywhere.”
The castle had three main towers built into the corners of its walls. One was the king’s, another was housing for knights, and the third was the Eye. Its door was painted a deep red, and just above the door, ten skulls carved of stone leered down at any who might enter. He paused and looked up at them. They were relics of an older time, to give mystery and wonder to the tower and the proceedings within. How long until he’d be forced to carve the skulls into lions?
Bram shoved open the door and hurried inside. Immediately before him was a set of stairs, looping up and around to the only true floor of the tower: the Eye.
Inside the eye, paintings of men fighting angels, demons, trolls, orcs, and other types of monsters the artists’ imaginations could conceive covered every bit of the walls. Torches burned throughout, casting strange shadows across the images. In the center, older than any living man, was a seven-legged table. Carved in perfect detail atop it was the world of Dezrel.
“We wait as you commanded,” said Ian.
Bram was pleased to see he also still carried his sword.
“He might,” said Loreina, walking around the table so she could kiss him. “I waited because I worry for you. Silly of you to think I’d sleep before your return.”
Bram wrapped an arm around her waist and smiled down at her. She was a slender thing, her brown hair braided and falling down to her waist. Though her face dimpled when she smiled, her eyes remained hard, attentive.
“You know more than I what the rumors say,” Bram said, taking a seat before the giant map. “So help Ian and me make sense of everything we are hearing.”
“Not much puzzlement from the north,” Ian said, crossing his arms and nodding toward Mordan. “Everything on the other side of the Corinth River is pledged to their new priest-king, Melorak. So far we’ve been lucky he hasn’t sent a permanent envoy to keep an eye on us.”
Loreina sat beside her husband, her hand in his.
“Their priests are doing a fine enough job on their own,” she said. “I’ve watched them, listened to their whispers as they scurry about the castle. More and more they press for people to repent and confess their sins.”
“We can’t ban them,” said Bram. His eyes lingered on Mordan as if he were looking for some hidden truth painted on the wood. “The moment we do, this priest-king will send an army to enforce his rule.”
“Does he even have an army to send?” Loreina asked.
“Of course he does,” Ian said, frowning. “He can’t have taken Mordeina without one.”
