Earth Vein Saga: Volume I, Chapter V

The day’s events were planned hastily and carried out with heavy hearts. Captain of the Guard Chandler Roudligan had the King’s own words written on a piece of paper, which was folded in his left hand and sealed with the King’s own oak tree sigil pressed against purple wax. He knew what message the note contained. He had overheard the Electors arguing about it before the King had summoned him.

Roudligan entered the guard’s dining area. His armor was like second skin that left him only in the early morning when he allowed himself the comfort of a stiff bed. The metal had once been white, but the years of fighting and use had turned it pearl. When Roudligan passed, a smell that was uncomfortably similar to cabbage soup followed his path. From which of Roudligan’s skin the stench came from, none could tell. The armor’s saving grace was the beautiful blues that accentuated the metals, a reminder of his status.

The guards had just sat down for their morning meals, but arose at the sight of their Captain.

“No, no, sit down. Eat up quick, boys, and enjoy it,” Chandler barked. “After I give you your next mission, you’re not going to have much of an appetite.”

The men shoveled the eggs and bacon into their mouths, and sopped up the bacon fat with their bread.

“We’ve got ourselves a search and destroy mission, boys,” Chandler said. “The hanged man has set up his arrangements and its up to us to bring him the meat.”

“Who’s being hanged?” asked Plymouth, a younger guard who had blue eyes that swallowed his face and a small, sharp chin that looked to drip off.

“Aren’t you an eager body? If the King had his way, we’d have a massacre on our hands. Thankfully, the Electors were able to save the lives of some Healers and girls. It seems the only Elector to agree with the King was High Elector Crierlown, but I doubt the old man even knew what he was speaking about.” The Captain sighed and shook his head. “We need to find the midwife named Hannah. She’s to be hanged come noon.”

The guards weighed the situation. It made them uneasy.

“Is there a charge, Captain?” asked Plymouth.

“The reason is because the King says so. That reason’s good enough for me, so let’s move out. We have to find her.”

By the break of dawn, word of the Queen’s demise and the birth of the new Prince had spread throughout the five lands of Hiretusk like an infectious disease. In the front of Hirest castle, the hangman had erected his platform and tied his nose beside the humming earth vein. The hangman had an estimate on the midwife’s weight, and worked to adjust the rope’s length accordingly, as to break her neck after dropping. The purple earth vein crystal stood half as tall as the castle and was a fading purple that lost its color at the crystal’s peak. The hum that resonated from the crystal was b flat. The hangman whistled in tune with earth vein to help pass the time.

The platform’s erection had caused a crowd to gather, although none knew who was being hanged or what the charge was.

The crowd parted at Captain Roudligan’s call. “Move away! Get out of here!”

It was thirty minutes after noon, and the guard’s had Hannah in their custody. The old woman’s face was cherry red from anger. It wasn’t the emotion Roudligan had expected from the midwife, but it was oddly pleasing to him. Escorting an angry woman off to die seemed easier than escorting a sobbing woman.

The King sat in a plush chair that had been set for him right in front of Hirest’s main gate. He had an unsettlingly placid look on his face. His eyes stared out but focused on nothing.

Behind him stood the King’s four Electors.

Roudligan bowed to the King. “A million pardons, my Lord. The midwife wasn’t in her house. We found hidden in the Healer’s temple.”

“Did she know of her charge prior to this?” Shirestone asked.

“No. To the best of my knowledge, no one outside of my guard and yourselves knew of the charge,” Roudligan replied.

Shirestone placed a finger on his stone chin and nodded. “I see. Very strange,” he said.

Hannah gathered the phlegm in her throat and spat it at the earth vein. The yellowed spit stuck and slid down slow.

“A curse on you all, you filthy bastards!” she screamed. She flailed violently in the guards’ arms, and was subdued with a swift knee to her stomach that knocked the wind from her. She was still gasping for breath as the hangman fixed the noose around her neck.

“She killed the Queen,” King Leonid said to himself. His voice was weak, and didn’t travel beyond the ear’s of his Electors.

With the last of her strength, Hannah screamed out loud like a feral beast. She looked over her shoulder and stared the King right in his eyes.

“You don’t even know what’s coming! I swear upon my soul that your son will be dead before he’s a year old, and that you will be dead far long before that! I curse you!”

Roudligan grabbed his sword’s grip.

“If you don’t close your mouth, I’ll run you through the stomach and let you die slow,” he said.

Her eyes glowed like embers that were embedded deep inside her skull. Hannah’s flat pursed lips spread open to reveal grinding yellowed teeth.

“This kingdom’s doomed,” she said.

They were her last words. Shortly after, the floor gave out below her and the noose tighted around her neck with a harsh snap. The housewife swung slowly for some minutes, until her body was carried off by the Order for the death preparations. She was to be burned. Her ashes would be tossed off the Wall and into the Southlands, where the savages live.

When the ceremony had ended, the King returned to his throne room and sat upon the twisting roots that made his throne. The King’s skin was pale and clammy, making the royal blue veins that crawled up his neck look even more vibrant. He rested his head upon his hand. It wasn’t until his body was fully settled into the throne that he realized his arm was shaking.

“Gods,” he said. “I cannot relax. Look at my hands.”

Shirestone placed his hand on the King’s shoulder. “My Lord, shall I get you some ale to sooth your nerves? Or maybe you’d like to smoke from a popi pipe?”

The King dismissed the young elector with a wave of his hand. “Keep your drugs. I don’t need them. I… I need my family. Have my son brought to me.”

“Of course, my Lord,” Shirestone said. He bowed to his king and left the throne room.

“Sid,” Leonid called out when Shirestone was out of sight and earshot.

“I’m here, Leon,” the High Elector said. Sid was seated in his chair beside the thrones.

The King looked at the throne beside him. His eyes welled with water. “This throne is empty, Sid. It‘s just like when I was young.”

“I’m so sorry, Leon. I can still remember the pain in your father’s eyes when he spoke of your mother, may the gods bless her soul. She was the same age as Gretchel, was she not?” asked Sid.

“Twelve years younger, Sid. My mother was prime for birthing. Gretchel was too old to have this child. I’m an idiot for thinking otherwise,” the King said.

“I don’t think her age would have saved her. With all due respect, old friend, I saw the body. Not even the coal eaters down South could have survived that birthing. Do you want to know what I think? And please don’t be offended,” Sid said.

“Go on,” the King said monotonously.

“The blood that flows through your veins has powers. I always believed that, even when the others looked at me wide eyes and thought that I had gone south. When I look at your son I know that my beliefs were true. He‘s a god, Leon. Everyone knows it. When I look out the window, I see half a kingdom in mourning for their lost Queen and half a kingdom in celebration for their newborn hero. The peasants dance around their funeral pyres. Flesh gave birth to a god and flesh bared the consequences. Rejoice for your son’s life,” the old man said.

The King stared off, lost in thought.

“You’re right about one thing. The others do think you’ve gone south, and I‘m beginning to believe them,” the King said. “My daughter is gone and my wife is dead. There’s no joy in this occasion.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way, Leon,” Sid said.

“Do not call me by my first name. You will refer to me as your Lord,” the King said.

The words hit the High Elector like a hammer to the chest.

“Yes, my Lord. I’m sorry to have offended you… my Lord,” the old man said. The words felt awkward coming out of his mouth. Sid could not even recall the last time his friend had wore the Crown of Branches. He had not been a King in Sid’s eyes since his wedding day, and before that when Leonid had returned to the castle with Blitzius’ blood on his blade. How long ago that was.

Shirestone entered the room followed by a wet-nurse who bared her breast to allow young Vandren to suckle on it. Her name was Veronica Crienhert, twin to Alfred the Annoited and the betrothed to Christopher Dodic, named the Summer’s Wind, who served as a knight under Lord Ivan Clarke. The people of the West were infamous for their stubborn mentality. Strength, wealth, and order were the words each Westerner lived by, and it was these words that made them so cold and unapproachable. There were rare few exceptions, as was evident to all who met the lovebirds Veronica and Christopher.

Dame Veronica cradled the young Prince’s head in her delicate hands. She had come to the castle on horseback the moment she had heard about the Queen’s passing, knowing that the Electors would only consider a noble to feed and take care of the child. The ride had made her thighs and legs sore, and it still pained her to walk, but it was well worth the honor or taking care of the Sunshine Prince.

Veronica had auburn hair that curled down to her shoulders and emerald eyes that matched her velvet gown. Shirestone couldn’t help but to steal glances at the Dame’s breasts.

“My Lord, your son. Also, I’ve just received word from Roudligan’s men. They have an urgent message,” Shirestone said.

“Is it about Dansil?” the King asked.

“I’m sorry, my Lord, it isn’t. It’s about the River of Black Tears,” the Elector said.

“Bring me my child,” the King said.

Veronica handed the child to the King, guiding his awkward hands to comfortably support the child’s head. She fixed the top of her gown to hide her naked breast. She felt no shame in front of the King. King Leonid’s eyes were unfocused and distracted, and Veronica doubted that he even realized that her breast was exposed.

“It’s such an honor to take care of him. Such a wonderful boy, our Prince,” Veronica said. The babe’s lips felt like warm compresses that massaged his nipples. His entire body felt warm against her torso. Veronica knew it was wrong, but having the baby pressed against her made between her legs wet, and feeding the child made the urgency for a man’s seed unbearable. If Christopher had been in the Kingdom, she would have had him the moment they were alone, but he was far away in the East now, probably standing on the edge of the River of Black Tears with the commoners and merchants who have gathered to watch the war that occurred across the river.

Veronica watched how the King handled his son. No not like that, hold his head up, she wanted to say, but she did not have the courage to give her King a lesson in holding babies. The King held the Prince awkwardly away from his body, so his eyes could drink in the entire baby’s body. Leonid couldn’t stare without squinting.

“When I look at the Prince, I can’t help but to think of the songsmith’s Ode to Seuros. He truly is a god among men,” she said.

“He’s a baby,” the King coldly said, still looking at the boy as if he were some oddity reeled in from the ocean. Veronica couldn’t understand it. If the baby had been hers, she would keep it against her body at all times and kiss his face between every breath. After a moment, her faith was restored when she saw a small glint in the King’s eyes as he pulled the baby closer to him. It seemed for just a moment, the King was restored to his confident, happy self. If Shirestone didn’t know any better, he could have sworn that the King was on the verge of smiling. The Elector was greatly relieved with this.

“Send in the messenger,” the King called.

The messenger was a foot soldier, who was escorted into the throne room by two Royal Guard who walked at either side of him. The guards’ hands were placed on their swords’ grips. The soldier wore boiled leather under chain mail and a bowl helm that covered the top of his head and his nose. Over his chain mail was a blue tunic with a bear embroidered on it with white thread. One didn’t need to see the bear to know where the soldier came from - his stiff stride and resilience to take off his helm in the King’s presence was evidence enough that he was from the West. It wasn’t until he was ten steps away from the King that the soldier removed his helm, adverted his eyes and took a knee. The foot soldier took cautionary glances at the bright baby in the King’s arms.

“What’s your message, soldier?” asked Leonid.

“Your Majesty, Lord Clarke sent me ahead of his party to reach you first, as to give you fair warning and time to think over the situation until he arrives. He should arrive in two day’s time,” the messenger said.

“I did not summon him. What does he wish to speak about?” asked the King.

“About this.” The messenger reached his hand around to his back and produced an arrow. The sight of the arrow made the King sick to his stomach. The arrow’s fletching was dark red feathers and the point was dark red up five inches of the arrow’s shaft.

“That’s a Latetral arrow,” Shirestone said, although the King knew very well where the arrow came from.

“Is that blood?” the King asked.

The soldier nodded. “Yes, your Majesty. It sailed over the River of Black Tears and hit a boy in the neck, right above the shoulder. He bled out in about ten minutes. He was only eleven years old.”

Any joy that the King had felt from holding his son was lost now. He called Veronica to his side, handed his son off to her and told her to take him for the night. The King then told the messenger to leave his throne room.

“Yes, your Majesty,” the Western soldier said, bowing. “Do you wish to keep this arrow here?”

As the King talked, his white face turned red and his voice escalated to a scream. “By the gods, no. You take that arrow far away from me. Burn it, destory it, bury it’s ashes. Send it to every hell the songsmiths sang of! Get that arrow out of my face!”

The King’s screams had shook up the soldier and made the Prince cry. The soldier nodded and quickly hurried out of the throne room.

“Joseph, I want messenger birds sent,” the King said. “I want the Dukes here.”

“Of course, your majesty,” Shirestone said. He bowed and left the throne room, leaving the King alone with his brooding thoughts. Shirestone walked twice as fast as he normally walked. He tended to do that when he was excited. When he reached the homing pigeons’ pen, he was out of breath and shaking.

“I need you to send out all of the birds,” Shirestone told the message master. The master’s brow furrowed.

“What’s the message?” asked the master.

“There’s going to be a war,” Shirestone said. He retrieved paper and a pen from his Elector robe and began drafting the letters to the Dukes.