Posted in Posted by Robert Louis Stevenson

     Jarrett didn’t appreciate the grandiose trappings of the Great Hall—the tantalizing perfumes that teased his senses and the plush carpet at his feet.  It was unnatural, all of it.  In his mind, Jarrett considered it a paradox—a palace to house a madman.

     Jarrett spread his feet to ease the slow aching that crept up his legs.  How long had he been standing here?  He allowed his gaze to be drawn to the throne.  The monarch was draped across it like a carcass, clouded eyes gazing lifelessly at the floor.  His breath was heavy with the stench of wine.  Jarrett could smell it.

     Outside the stained glass window, a crier called out the hour.  Jarrett fidgeted and cleared his throat.

     “My lord?”  It was uncivilized, he knew, to thus address royalty, but all formality was beyond him.  He couldn’t wait all day.

     The monarch raised his head slowly, revealing a face pocked with scars and void of all emotion.  A sneer curled Jarrett’s lip—he was a weakling.  A sick, intoxicated man who sat on a throne and called himself king.

     “Rise,” the man mumbled, obviously unaware of the fact that his visitor had never dropped to his knees.  His glazed eyes shifted over Jarrett’s face.  “What news from the border?”

     A hint of surprise crossed Jarrett’s face.  He hadn’t expected recognition—not from the shell of a man before him.  “All is well, my lord,” he said coolly.  There was a noticeable tic under his left eye at such a blatant lie, and his congenial tone grew suddenly tight.  “I have brought the men-at-arms.  May your lordship do with them as he pleases.”

     The monarch’s voice became strained.  “How many?” he asked, his fingers tightening on the arms of his throne.

     “Fifty strong.”

     Jarrett felt the hair on the back of his neck bristle as the king waved a dismissing hand.

     “Tolerable…tolerable.  Good day, sir.”  His head rested against the back of his throne, and he looked to have dozed off.  Jarrett stood before him, irresolute.

     “My lord?” he said again.

     The monarch shuddered and jerked awake.  “Yes?”

     “I have brought you nearly the entirety of my garrison…”

     “That’s good, good.”

     Jarrett closed his fists tightly.  “No.  It’s ludicrous.”

     The king looked startled.  He blinked rapidly, eyeing first the young nobleman, and then the guard at the door.  His voice was cracking.  “You will have your men back safely, Jarrett of Anwar.”

     “Back from the battle front?” Jarrett pressed, taking a step nearer the throne.  “Every man of the fifty?”

     The king’s hand went to his forehead, nervously tracing his temple.  “Yes, yes, of course.”

     For a moment, Jarrett did not speak.  There was nothing to be said.  He watched the monarch with a critical eye, weighing the chances of his men being deployed on some premature military advancement and never living to tell the tale.  It was all too probable.

     He looked up, realizing that he had lost his audience—the monarch’s chin rested in his white fur collar, and his chest moved tremulously up and down.  Pursing his lips, Jarrett turned and left the hall.  The guards bowed as he passed out the door.

     “Stupid to try and reason with him,” Jarrett seethed under his breath.  There were better ways to conduct a war.  He himself knew all too well the reality of the conflict along the border—did he not live ever in the shadow of an enemy attack?  Here in Riordan, King Balthasar the seventh lived in his world of artificial peace, content with his wine and his women.

     “Ready to go, sir?”

     Jarrett glanced sideways at the servant who awaited him just outside the door.  “Yes.  Bring the horses, Raed.”

     He kicked angrily at the cobbles, observing the activity in the courtyard with disinterest.  Balthasar was a fool—the grand delegate behind which his country cowered.  His councilors attempted to hide him from the people, but Jarrett knew better.  He never spoke of the fact that his lord was a faithless drunkard with a penchant for beautiful women.  It was too humiliating.

     Raed arrived with the horses, keeping the sorrel nag for himself and offering his master the muscular stallion.  An amused smile split his tanned face as he noted Jarrett’s discomfort, but he did not speak.  Squaring his shoulders, Jarrett took the reins and made for the gate, leading the horse behind him.  The doorkeeper raised his eyebrows, and Jarrett bit his tongue.

     “His lordship’s horse has a lame foot,” Raed explained discreetly, bowing to the man as he passed through the gate.

     They walked without speaking for several minutes, Jarrett slightly ahead.  His thoughts remained in the Great Hall of Riordan.

     “Well,” Raed spoke up at last, “it’s behind you now.”

     Jarrett didn’t turn his head.  “It’s hardly begun.”

     “Do you think we will be attacked at Anwar, sir?”

     “Unless they are complete fools.  It will not take them long to realize that we have lost our combatants—they could take Anwar with nothing more than a handful of foot soldiers.”

     Raed cleared his throat.  “Well, sir, considering that the lord of Anwar is struck with fear at the thought of mounting his own horse, let us presume they could take it with even less than that.”

     Jarrett stopped.  He glanced over his shoulder, looking first at the horse and then at Raed.  “I thought you said—”

      “I judged it best to avoid the humiliation, sir.  Shall we ride?”

     Rolling his eyes, Jarrett tossed the reins over his horse’s neck.  “You’re a fox, Raed,” he muttered, struggling awkwardly to fit his boot in the stirrup. 

     Raed had already mounted, and waited with a smile on his face for his lord to settle into the saddle.  There was a teasing light in his eyes.  “A shame the stable boys in Riordan missed seeing such a show,” he said lightly.  “Balthasar would have enjoyed the tale.”

     Jarrett cast him a dark glare.  “Thank you, Raed,” he said pointedly.  “Enough.”

     Raed did not reply—he was shading his eyes to the northeast, mouth closed against the breeze that hurled the sand in his face.

     “My lord, there is a rider coming,” he said quietly, moving his horse forward to stand abreast of his master. 

     Jarrett started involuntarily and grabbed at the saddle.  The horse pawed the ground, sending a whirlwind of sand into Jarrett’s face.  He ducked his head and cursed.

     “Raed, where does he come from?”

     “The north-east, my lord.”  Raed moved closer—Jarrett could feel him at his shoulder.  “He hails from Anwar.”

     Rubbing his eyes furiously, Jarrett blinked and peered ahead.  The horse and rider were upon them almost at once, skidding to a stop in a sticky cloud of dust.  A spray of sand struck Jarrett’s face, and his horse reared its head nervously.

     “My lord,” the rider said in greeting, slipping from the saddle and standing at Jarrett’s side.  He tipped back his head, breathing heavily. 

     “Well?” Jarrett said sharply, his fingers tightening on the reins.  “What word?”
     For a moment the messenger looked past him, and Jarrett turned instinctively to Raed.  His head was down.  The messenger swallowed and wet his lips.

     “Anwar is under attack, my lord,” he said haltingly.  “Nearly five hundred.”

     A wave of lightheadedness swept over him, and Jarrett clenched his teeth to get his bearings amidst the dark splotches that marred his vision.  He groped for the saddle, and felt Raed’s hand at his back.  He tried to wave it away.

     “We must return immediately,” he said, vaguely realizing that his voice was slurred and distorted.

     “Yes, my lord,” Raed murmured.  His mouth was nearly at Jarrett’s ear, his arms on either side.

     Suddenly Jarrett felt something tighten around his throat.  He gagged, reaching convulsively for his neck—he couldn’t breathe.  The horse was slipping from beneath him…or had he fallen off?

     He landed hard on his back.  The breath burst from his lungs, and he choked at the nausea rushing to his stomach.  He could feel someone’s hands pinning his arms down, and made an impulsive effort to free himself, succeeding only in digging himself further into the sand.  There was no air left—only a stifling, hot darkness that closed in around his mouth.  He couldn’t see.

     Suddenly the rope around his neck was pulled loose.  It burned—so did the gritty air he gulped through his mouth.  He dug his fingers into the sand, bracing himself, and tried to adjust his eyes to the brightness.

     “I am sorry, my lord,” murmured a voice at his ear.  Jarrett stiffened, turning ever so slightly.  He winced as he felt a rope pulled taut around his wrists.  “What must be, must be.”

     A sudden panic welled in Jarrett’s chest.  He strained wildly, cursing the dust that filled his mouth.

     “Raed!” he shouted, striking out with his legs.  “Don’t be a fool—Anwar cannot fall!”  His knee crashed into the man’s ribcage, and Raed’s fist struck him in the jaw.  Jarrett’s senses reeled as his eyes came into focus on Raed’s face directly above his own.  His face was clouded with anxiety.

     “Anwar will fall,” he said levelly, his voice just above a whisper.  “And for myself, I would rather live the life of a scoundrel than die without cause for a ruined nation.”