Ringwall's Doom. Wolf Awert
before he acts. For this he must be quick.” That was written in the Book of Sunn. Astergrise had read the scripture over and over again until its essence was not only firmly in his head, but in his very guts, so much that it had become a part of who he was.
How much does Prince Sergor understand? What does he want? the old marshal wondered.
As restless thoughts still shot through the minds of the higher-ups in the realm, Prince Sergor stepped forward and began his speech for the soldiers. He spoke long and clear, and he fused magic and words into sentences. He finished with all eyes on the future, summoning up images, and laid a solemn silence on the square before raising his voice once more.
“In the time Gulffir has had to rule itself many foals have grown to stallions and borne more foals still. What else could this noble city have done but rule itself, when the king, unparalleled in his wisdom, has his strength taken from him by the cruel breath of old age? Sitting and resting, moving but slowly, may grant unrivaled power. The wandering dunes of the desert already show us how to do it: they can strangle life that has taken generations to blossom, and yet we never see them in haste.
“But that is not how we live in the Fire Kingdom. Our riders are fast as the wind on the plains, veiled like the sun in a sandstorm. None can see them, and if they do, they die. The riders’ arrows are faster than their targets’ reactions. They can fetch the lord of the skies, the gray Master Falcon, to the ground with a single shot. Our tribes are always on the move; they have petty disagreements and then forge new alliances; they match each other’s strength and use it against the forces of nature. I returned from Ringwall to bring freedom back to Gulffir and the Fire Kingdom, to break it free of the shackles it has grown accustomed to, to tear open the doors of every stable and let the horses run free again. I will have Gulffir’s pride and standing flying high above our towers with the black and red banners, and the Fire Kingdom will take its rightful place once more.
“Riders of the plains and the desert, it is to you I now speak. My councilors have told me there is unrest at our borders. This is nothing new. It has always been so. But in the past it was our horses that caused it, our riders upon their backs, not the Earthlanders or the Woodwers. Should it stay as it is, I ask you? Should it really stay that way?”
For just a moment the question hung in the air like a bubble, and the tension was palpable. When it became clear that the prince would not answer himself, a voice shouted: “No!” and many others joined in, some clattering their swords and shields to add to the racket. “Hail to our king!”
Once the noise had subsided Sergor-Don opened his mouth to continue, but another shout came from the crowd.
“What about our pay?”
All heads snapped around to find the one man who had been so taken by the moment that he dared to ask for money. Before they could find him, another voice shouted: “He’s right, what about it?”
More and more unhappy soldiers joined in. The spell of the moment was broken. Astergrise frowned. Grand General Sarch smiled triumphantly, and Auran-San looked cold, yet pleased.
“My father’s debt to you will be paid,” the prince called out. “Haltern-kin-Eben has given me his word.” The keeper of tradition suffered from a sudden coughing fit as he choked on his wine. He could not recall having given any such promise. Auran-San clapped him on the back and whispered: “Stay still, we’ll have him soon.”
“But your future pay,” the prince continued, “you will first have to earn.”
He made another pause and waited for the outcry to subside.
“The only gifts a warrior gets are sword and board, arrows and armor. A soldier’s duty is to gain fame and fortune, for himself, for his king, for his homeland. And now, those among you who were so avaricious to ask for their pay ought to know the king’s duty. Would you not like to know? Well? Where has your inquisitive nature gone?
“I will tell you what the king’s duty is. His most sacred task is to provide his soldiers with the chance to prove themselves to the world. Prove their courage, prove their prowess, prove their pride. A warrior’s pay is his prey, and your king will show you where to hunt for it best.
“For too long have our neighbors made a mockery of us. Even in our own lands. You will return glory to the Fire Kingdom, and I promise you, your reward will be great.”
The prince raised his hands once more for his warriors and returned to the palace, the crowd’s cheers at his back. Generals and cavalry leaders, councilors, court sorcerers and high-ranking officials followed him.
“A rousing speech, your Majesty,” Grand General Sarch congratulated the prince. “I see so much of your father’s spirit in you, especially when he was young and strong.”
“You have my thanks, Grand General. I hope you will be as supportive tomorrow at my crowning.”
At these words the prince turned to the rest of his followers.
“Tomorrow, precisely between sunrise and noon, you will find me in the throne room. In the same place where my father once resided. Those of you who wish to aid me in guiding the reins of our kingdom would do well to be there, but consider this: to rule means to assume responsibility, and responsibility means duties. Both of these, responsibility and duty, have the power to grant a long and fulfilled life. They can also cut it short.”
The prince’s gaze swept across his followers as his mouth curved to a fleeting smile and left nought but confused faces behind. The mutterings in the halls would not die down before sunset.
You speak true, young prince, Auran-San thought.
“I have been silent all this time, Auran-San. I put all my trust in you, even though collecting the money has made me no friends, to put it mildly. But to keep trusting you I must know what you plan to do,” Haltern-kin-Eben whispered to the first councilor, his hand held in front of his mouth.
Auran-San lifted his chin and looked down his long nose. His voice lost all inflection and sounded oddly flat as he spoke. “The prince will not have long to relish his crowning and his soldiers’ oaths.”
“What are you going to do?” Haltern-kin-Eben asked in shock. “Do you really mean to topple the prince? I thought kingslayers had no easy reign.”
“None of that. I will let fate play its hand for us,” Auran-San responded calmly.
Sarch and the keeper of tradition exchanged glances before quickly fixing their eyes back on the first councilor as they waited for an explanation, but Auran-San took his time. He slowly turned to face the wide plains beyond the city walls, and when he finally opened his mouth to speak, neither knew whether he was answering Haltern’s question or simply thinking out loud.
“There is a tale that has been told at countless evening fires in our kingdom for untold generations. It is the tale of the weight of the crown. You must know that the crown of the Fire Kingdom brims with magic and grants the wearer absolute power. But only if…”
“If what?”
“But only if the head it sits upon is strong enough to bear it. A normal person, without royal blood, or a weak youngling who dares take it before his time, will be crushed by its weight. So goes the tale.”
“Superstitious rubbish,” Sarch snorted.
“Certainly, Grand General, certainly. I agree with you; such stories are seldom entirely true. But what does that matter? The important thing is that the common folk believe in them. All that remains is to amplify the crown’s magic and give it a little extra weight. Then a – how did you say? – superstitious rubbish story can become a staggering truth in the most real sense of the word. The moment Sergor-Don is crowned, he will have to take it off quickly if he does not wish to crumble beneath its weight, and all will see it. And should he be so foolish as to put it on himself, the effect would be even more impressive. And if he denies the impulse to take it off, his head will be crushed. Just like this here, look.”
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