THE TALE OF ELLAR THE SWIFT
I wrote this story to flesh out one of the kings in a work-in-progress called Lakeswords - here we get to know Ellar the Swift, and the truth behind his tale of kingship...
There are those who gather in the taverns and at dances. As feet tramp the boards to jaunty music, or in the din of chatter and drinking songs and laughter, they will say, ‘How came Ellar the Swift to be king?’
It is a valid question, some say. Ellar the Swift was a poacher, he wandered the woods hunting ducks, wolves, and even poaching the then-king’s stag. What business has he being king? What models the land of Gnarl’s Wood after his sensibilities?
‘He’s a ranger,’ some war-wounded veteran will announce above the din. ‘He knows this land, and he looks after it! That’s king enough for me.’
‘He’s a mere poacher!’ a dissident will sneer. ‘He’s as flighty as he ever was – always chasing after some animal or another!’
‘That’s dedication, that! When he hunts, he has a singular focus, and he brings that to his kingship!’
‘That and his hounds! He’s always off over the moors with his dogs, looking for deer that are now rightfully his! He follows his whims as he does the stag, meandering and halting!’
‘He’s considerate and he nurtures the local nature! Don’t forget he’s taught us all the handling of bows and swords; and we’d be worse off without the regular meals of venison he brings!’
So the conversation goes, round and round. And King Jannen slips out of the tavern and into the coach that rolls up, stopping ever so briefly in the street to let him up.
‘What have you learned, sire?’ his advisor asks.
‘I have learned that King Ellar is a divisive figure amongst his people,’ Jannen responds thoughtfully. ‘He dotes on his forest and moors, following the tracks of deer and the flight of birds; and in the evening he returns to his hunting hall and sits on his throne, thinking only of the hunt.’
‘Do you believe that, sire?’
‘Not in the least,’ Jannen says. ‘I think we need a closer source.’
The Hall of Ellar the Swift hangs with the heads of animals, and is ever-abuzz with baying hounds, burning fires, and raucous laughter. Pride of place above the throne is always taken with the gleaming silver stag’s head, which twinkles in the half-light.
Ellar keeps only the company of the finest hunters in his lands. When it had been Herth the Mange’s land, the deer had been only for the king, but Ellar encourages competition. He likes to know he isn’t the only one who can track a party through these woods, or watch an enemy through a blind just a few feet away without their slightest knowing.
He slaps Jannen on the shoulder, spilling some of the quiet king’s ale.
‘You would’ve loved it in those days, you rogue!’ he cries – his nose red, for he has been drinking even before Jannen arrived – ‘We fought Herth with guerilla tactics, retreating into the woods and peppering his forces with arrows; after six months he told us we could keep the sodding forest!’
Jannen laughs, taking a swig of his ale – it’s decent stuff, but Ellar has never had a refined palate. Meat turns freely on spits over open fires dotted throughout the lodge, the dogs kept at bay through collars chained to posts – they can get close enough to harry the poor cooks, but not to taste the tantalising foodstuffs.
‘It sounds like a riot, old boy!’ Jannen laughs. ‘If I could’ve been there to take some pointers… you know my archers all use crossbows, we could use some of your hunters.’ Ellar eyes him curiously as he sets his mug aside.
‘We’re not doing no dealing tonight, Spymaster,’ he says, tapping his nose. ‘I’m harbouring you as an honoured guest! Enjoy my halls, but save the dealing for the diplomats, please! I’m not one for all that poker-faced double-talk, that’s why I have my advisors. Well, most of ‘em; one of ‘em’s taken sick, and not in a good way. Looks like he’ll be going tonight. But I’ve got a replacement lined up – can’t lose too many, it’d be like losing a part of my mind!’
‘It takes a canny king to know himself so well,’ Jannen says, turning on the bench to lean back against the table. There had been a veritable feast, and he had partaken of most everything. ‘So regale us, King Ellar!’ he continues. ‘Yours is a story I’ve not heard before – tell us how you won your sword!’
Ellar pulls the gleaming sword from its scabbard. It’s plain, with an upturned guard and a hand-and-a-half hilt in rich red leather. Ellar keeps it well, but for such a king that is simplicity itself.
‘Nice, isn’t it?’ he says, and at Jannen’s languid nod he grins and continues, ‘I don’t have much use for such a thing, but I carry it with me – man’s got to know who his king is, right?’ He nudges Jannen in the ribs.
‘The story behind this sword is really very interesting. See, it begins in these very woods…’
I’ve known these woods since I was a lad. Walked every inch of them in my life, and I’ve had more than a hand in keeping them verdant and filled with fauna! But the sword, well that fell into my possession when I was barely an adult.
I’ve always hunted here – first with my father, then by myself. It can be a solitary life, the life of a hunter: you’re always tracking your prey, following a scent or a trail, or stuck out in the woods on a stormy night, watching for your quarry to go to ground; if you’ve got none to keep up with you, you’ll be all alone but for the meadowgrass and the cover of the canopy.
Out there in the forest, that’s where the hunter proves himself.
I was an impetuous youth. The day I found this sword, I was going after a stag that had outfoxed Herth himself! This was some twenty-six years ago now, so he was still fairly spry in those days. Not his battle-born self, ‘course, but he had a quick wit and a strong arm about him, and his hands didn’t shake as they do now. Still…
I’d been trailing the silver stag near a week – it was elusive, I would have sworn it knew I was tracking it the way it moved. In and out of rivers, over rocky scrubland that didn’t leave hardly any tracks. It felt like I was chasing a ghost, I was starting to worry I’d made up the whole dang animal! Anyway, I’d got a good pace up and followed its trail out of the woods and onto the moors; this was Herth’s moors, back in the day, king’s land. If you were spotted there, they’d shoot you dead and not think about just chasing you off, so you had to be careful as well as quick. I was both – like I said, impetuous – but even I wasn’t going to have an easy time tracking this beast and dodging the kingsguard. I even let the beast have a couple hours, just to make sure I was prepared. So I was maybe half a day behind it by the time I got out onto the moors, and I figured I’d lose perhaps another four hours just trying to avoid the guards…
In all I spent three days on the moors. I began to think I’d gone insane: I was alone, only the thought of that deer keeping me going; I began to fear I was walking a false trail, confusing for a tuft of fur instead a clutch of dandelion seeds, or mistaking a boar’s worm-gruntings for deer droppings!
I shot a few hares and ate them raw, but I began to go mad. Half-starved, raving, in fear of the guards and the dogs and the cold, I wrapped myself in furs and huddled in the lee of rocks for warmth. I saw no sign of the deer for two days at least, and I truly did think I had lost my mind in seeing it, and now I was spiralling in search of a ghost, a creature that did not exist!
I was all set to lie down and starve in my meagre coverlet, when I espied the lightest tracks: the deer! It took nearly a day to confirm it, and even then I was sceptical, for the tracks led back into the forest; but I found the merest brush of silvered fur and in my heart the determination roared like a furnace. I was on the hunt once more!
Thereafter I moved fast. I must have been so far behind if it was confident that I would not find its trail, and and left me such clues as it did: silver moult rubbed off on tree bark; antler velvet of a particularly fine quality; and deep hoofprints in the earth which showed me clearly the beast’s path. How did I know it was the same deer? Call it fate, perhaps, or maybe a hunter’s instinct: you spend so long tracking such a unique animal, you learn every curve of a hoof and the particular feel of its moults.
As the sun set on that day, the sky dimmed to pale pink and the brilliant orange rays lanced through the trees, I found myself in the shadow of the trees on the cusp of a clearing, where at the centre was a perfectly round lake. The deer stood there, apparently unconcerned, head bent to sup from the silver waters. It glittered in the late sun and for a moment, my hand hesitated on the draw. Did I really want to kill such a perfect creature.
I was young, still learning as a hunter, and perhaps I should not have stepped out into the light. But I did so, and the feather-step of my footfall was enough to alert it. Its head jerked up and it stared at me; I froze, my bow drawn but pointed away from the creature. Yet it regarded me coolly, and as I gazed into its regal face it blinked its eyes slowly, and seemed to nod.
What a kingly creature indeed! To teach me of the hunt in such a way, and to accept gracefully that I had learned my trade and would use it justly! I bowed back, and I raised the bow and delivered a shot direct to its heart.
It died instantly and cleanly. I took back the arrow, for it was unbroken, and bent to strip the hide from the creature; but before I could pierce its flesh with my knife there was a splash from the direction of the lake. I turned to see a sword rising from the depths, clutched by a glowing grey hand – truly this was the sword of a king! And the deer had led me straight to it. I looked down once again at the corpse and whispered my thanks for such a gift, and the hand deposited the sword onto the grass verge. I stooped to retrieve it – it was indeed a fine blade, finer than the ones made in this land! I slipped it into my belt and tied the deer, that I might carry it back with me whole – for such a prize deserved to be seen by the people before it became a cloak or a coat!
And that is how I got this sword, and became king of Gnarl’s Wood.
Quevus whimpered as the cloth sack was removed from his head, and he stared into harsh light. He saw two figures silhouetted against the far wall; a pressure on each shoulder told him two more were right behind him.
The light was brought down to a reasonable level, and he got a better look at his surroundings. He was in a dark stone room, the only light from a half-dozen tiny slits of windows in the upper reaches of the wall, and from a glass lamp on the table. The two figures at the far wall carried shortbows, each nocked with an arrow, though the lines were kept slack for the moment. He did not dare turn his head, but instead focused on the fifth figure, who had been revealed when the light was dimmed.
She sat opposite him. Her clothes were simple, hard-wearing dark greys, and a darker cloak which was almost black. Her hair was cropped above her shoulders and her face was pale, and atop her head was a delicate silver crown inset with sapphires. She looked almost bored as she appraised him.
‘You’re Quevus, former diplomatic advisor to Ellar the Swift?’ she asked. Quevus’s eyes darted to the bowmen by the door; he nodded minutely. The woman groaned and rolled her eyes; she motioned towards him, and Quevus sighed as the pressure on his shoulders was released.
‘They’re still watching, and they’ve got bows too,’ the woman said. ‘Now, you’ve probably guessed who I am, so there are two options before you: one, you cooperate and answer my questions honestly.’
Quevus swallowed, glanced left and right. There were no chains, nor any stocks, or torture equipment of any sort in this room. It was a bare cell.
‘Wh...what’s option two?’ he stammered.
‘Option two is, my men kill you and we bury your body so deep no one will ever find it. You’re already dead, as far as Ellar’s concerned; if you answer my questions, you can serve me instead.’
Quevus’s brain rallied against his common sense and his brow creased.
‘I’m sorry but: who would I be serving?’ he asked. ‘I don’t know you.’
‘You would know me by a different face,’ the woman said. ‘King Jannen, Pleased to finally make your acquaintance.’
‘Jannen?’ Quevus practically snorted. ‘But you can’t be! Jannen’s a… oh.’ Jannen’s face was plastered with a derisive smirk.
‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘It helps to have people think I’m some shaven-headed scholar. And a man – my decoy gets taken seriously. But,’ she said, and she leaned forward to murmur, ‘now you know that, your options remain the same. You may choose one of the two.’
Quevus stared at Jannen’s face. She was utterly serene in the face of his impending death.
‘I don’t have all night,’ she said, examining her nails.
‘One!’ Quevus blurted. ‘One, please! I’ll… I’ll answer all your questions.’ He hung his head in shame.
‘Good!’ Jannen sat back, resting her feet on the table. ‘So, first question: I’ve heard Ellar’s version of his founding myth and it’s bullshit, it’s just bullshit. What’s the real tale?’
‘The real tale? I don’t know what you mean, your majesty.’ Jannen blew a raspberry and shot Quevus a glare that made him try to hide his neck deeper in his collar.
‘Come on! You were his closest friend for years – his most faithful advisor. I’m almost sorry I had to pretend to bump you off for this, but I’m curious: the stag, the guards, the lake… there’s something he’s not telling people, his glorious past has got “propaganda” written all over it. He was twenty-one, he went off on a long hunt and came back with the sword – what’s in that gap? This was right on the cusp of the rebellion, the sword may have indicated his kingship but he didn’t become king until he kicked old Herth out of the forest – what’s everyone missing? What’s the big joke?’
‘The joke? I don’t understand, there’s no joke – it’s just what happened-’
‘Okay!’ Jannen kicked her feet off the table – the two legs of her chair that had been in the air thumped down loudly. She stood up, and Quevus could see the slick black scabbard and bootblacked basket hilt that marked Jannen the Spymaster’s sword – the sword that, up until then, he had assumed that the bald, mild man had owned as king of Morobrok. Instead of drawing that, Jannen’s hand went to her back and she drew a long, elegant dagger from beneath her cloak.
‘I didn’t want to have to do this, Quevus,’ she said. ‘Guards, hold his arm.’
Quevus yelped as the hands suddenly grabbed him again – one taking his shoulder and forearm, the other grabbing his upper arm and pinning his wrist to the table. His fingers splayed out on the wood, and Jannen reached in.
‘Here’s how it’s going to work now,’ she said. ‘You’re going to tell me the story. I know you know it – don’t shake your head, Quev, it’s not use denying it – you were his childhood friend, you were with him every step of the way. Tell me the story, and for every lie you tell I’ll cut off one of your fingers. I know some things about the real story, but I want you to piece it all together for me. You understand, Quev?’
‘Okay!’ Quevus wailed. ‘Okay! Just, please… please don’t hurt me. I’ll tell you.’
Jannen leaned forward and jabbed the knife into the woodwork, where it stuck between Quevus’s pinky and ring finger.
‘I’m listening very intently, Quevus,’ she said. ‘Go on.’
Through snot and tears, Quevus began: ‘The first thing you should know is: he was never alone on those hunts. He had three brothers…’
We sat, the five of us: myself and Ellar, always a team, since we were the youngest; then his older brother Hyram; then Julius and finally Brace. Brace was the eldest by two years, so he always took the lead – though usually that meant telling the two of us to go scout ahead or to cause a ruckus and drive the deer towards them. They had a fire out on the moor that evening, because the kingsguard were useless and they usually chatted with the poachers – they were local lads, knew most of us anyway. They didn’t want to hurt us.
We ate some hares we’d caught earlier that day; a good shot by Hyram got one before it saw us and set the others running, but our dogs chased down a few more. Still, it was not a lot of meat for five young lads, and stomachs were rumbling as tempers began fraying.
‘I don’t think this deer is real,’ Ellar said suddenly.
We all stared at him. He’d been staring sullenly at his meagre portion of hare while his brothers laughed and joked, and his words cut through the quiet banter.
‘What do you mean?’ Brace asked, and Ellar fixed him with a sullen glare.
‘We’ve been capering all over these moors for a whole week and we’ve not seen hide nor hair of this thing that wasn’t found by you,’ he spat. ‘I think this is one of your tall tales. I think you’ve made the whole thing up!’
That got him a clip round the ear from Hyram.
‘Mind your tongue, runt!’ he admonished. ‘Brace has his quirks, it’s true; but he’s never steered us wrong on a hunt, and he’s an eye like a hawk’s when it comes to tracking!’
‘He’s the one that spotted those hares we’re having for dinner,’ Julius piped up. ‘You’d be sitting here on an empty stomach without him.’
Ellar stood and threw down his bowl, eyes blazing defiant, the scattered meat hissing in the fire as it burned.
‘I’d be home and full without him! If he hadn’t been set on this silver stag of his, we coulda bagged a few of those young bucks we passed four days back and been on our way home!’
‘We should sit on you just for that!’ Hyram snapped, but Brace held up a placating hand. Ellar started, then huffed and marched away. The light was not yet fading, but he ducked behind a rock before I could follow.
Slowly, Brace took a stout flitch of wood from the pile of kindling and used it to nudge the wooden bowl away from the fire, where it was beginning to blacken from the heat.
‘Leave him be,’ he said quietly. His voice crackled like the fire, and the flames danced in his eyes. ‘He’s on the journey with us – he’ll come around, but it’ll take him time.’
‘Maybe we should let him turn back,’ Hyram said. ‘His mood’s not going to get any better the longer we’re out here, and he won’t even believe this deer’s real until-’
‘Who’ll go with him?’ Brace asked, interrupting his second-youngest brother. Hyram started; Brace only interrupted – only spoke, really – when he could win the war of words. Brace stared at his brother evenly, his eyes betraying nothing.
Hyram looked to Julius, who shook his head; Shaking his own dissent, his questing finger found me.
‘What about Quev?’ Brace glanced down at the fire, staring at the meat that had now crisped to a charcoal black.
‘Two kids? Out on their own on the wild moors? Oh yeah – plenty safe, Hyram.’ He leaned back and stared at the stars, nebulae wheeling overhead. It was a kaleidoscope of colours. ‘Fact is, unless you’re willing to take him back yourself – and I know you ain’t willing – our littlest brother is stuck with us for the hunt.’
‘Well that blows,’ Hyram pouted. He prodded the fire viciously with a stick until Julius slapped his shoulder absent-mindedly, a sign that he was going too far.
‘You remember your first long hunt?’ Brace asked quietly. Hyram stared wistfully at the flames and smiled.
‘Yeah,’ he chuckled. ‘We went looking for golden ducks – you didn’t let me stop until we found one that looked like real gol… oh.’ His smile faded and he had the conscience to look contrite. But Brace smiled in that quiet, lopsided way of his and nodded.
‘Jules? Remember our first hunt together?’
‘Wild dogs,’ Jules said. ‘You said you’d seen one as black as Dead Man’s Hole and I didn’t believe you until I was taking the knife to his hide myself.’ He laughed, and Brace and Hyram joined in, soft and warm.
‘You always told me you had to sight him in the dark!’ Hyram said. ‘It was like hunting a shadow: you were aiming at what he obscured.’
‘Exactly,’ Brace said. ‘And this time it’s a deer.’ He stood, raising a wooden chalice to his brothers.
‘Brothers, I salute you, but it’s time I turned in. Wait up for our dear brother’s return. And Quev,’ he added, turning to me and fixing me with that know-it-all-grin, ‘go talk him round, will you?’
Being the dutiful friend, I did just that. It took me twenty minutes to find him; when I did, he was lying motionless in the grass, arrow nocked in his short bow, and staring into the grass. I sat next to him and watched as, barely moving, he adjusted his aim.
The grass ahead seemed to ripple in the wind. Ellar loosed the arrow and there was a distant squeak. He got up and stalked over to a spot which seemed identical to every other on this vast plain, and pulled up a hare, limp and lifeless, his arrow still stuck in it. He returned to me and, pulling the arrow out, he began to part the hide from the hare.
‘Bloody brothers and their bloody hunts,’ he muttered. ‘I’m the best shot, the keenest eye and ear here, but they don’t see that! They just tell me to run and spook the hares or follow their lead, and now we’re chasing after an animal that doesn’t even exist!’
‘You did a good job on that hare,’ I said. ‘It took me forever to find you, you’d gone so still – I think perhaps your brothers don’t know you have these skills, maybe you should show them.’
‘With what? A brace of hares for their supper?’ he sneered. ‘I don’t think so – my gifts are mine alone, they can struggle on without me.’
We sat in silence for some time, Ellar wrapping the denuded hare in dry grass to keep it fresh for the fire, until I finally gave some thought to what I should say.
‘You know Brace really wanted this time with you,’ I tried. ‘If your brothers hadn’t insisted on coming along, I think it would’ve just been you and him. This is something he wanted to share with you – he wants you to have this hunt.’
‘Yeah, well… nuts to him too!’ Ellar spat. ‘He’s bringing us out here chasing ghosts, and I won’t be party to it – I’ll go bag a decent stag and take it home and it’ll be a week’s worth of eating just for me!’
‘...And what about the silver stag?’ I asked. He glanced at me and shrugged.
‘Someone else’s prize, I guess.’
‘Not yours? The best hunter of all your brothers?’
That got his attention. I think that rivalry lit a fire under him, because at that he stood and motioned with his head for me to follow.
‘I’m the best, alright,’ he said, ‘And they’re going to see that too. I’ll get the silver stag and a couple decent deer for the table!’
From there, the story played out more or less as his majesty said, except with Brace in the lead role. He kept everyone going – they hunted hares, took down a doe or two to fill their bellies, and Brace was always at the front, pulling Ellar in his wake and showing him the ways of the hunter.
After that night, when the hunger and the cooling weather focused everyone’s minds on the hunt, things got better. I think Ellar actually enjoyed himself out there, finding his limits. He moved faster than Hyram, quieter than Julius; only Brace was better, and that was from age and experience. Ellar couldn’t win an argument with him, couldn’t out-hunt him, didn’t know the moors as he did, but it was only a matter of time. I always suggest he was the best of them, and I think-
A sharp pinprick of pain caused Quevus to yelp, and Jannen leaned in close.
‘Don’t blow smoke up my ass, Quev,’ she said. ‘Brace was the real leader of the brothers. Ellar might be good, but his mind’s never been on that level and it never will. I find it hard to believe he really was better than his older brothers.’
‘It’s the truth!’ Quevus wailed. ‘I mean it! I was there, and I’ve been with him ever since – he really was that quiet, that fast!’
‘But Brace was quieter? Faster?’ Quevus nodded miserably.
‘Better in every way,’ he sighed. ‘Brace had the makings of a true king – I’m sorry for what happened to him.’
‘Well let’s get to that,’ Jannen said, folding her arms. ‘What happened to Brace?’
They made their way to the clearing, as Ellar said. It was less magical, more normal, but the deer was there – Brace had been hanging back for a day, letting Ellar find the obvious signs and pointing him right if he went wrong. Whilst I went with he and Ellar, he had directed Hyram and Julius to the other side of the clearing, to spook the deer back towards us if Ellar missed. But Ellar was impatient – though he still himself, he was anxious to take the shot, so we hid in the shadows of the trees and as the deer bent to drink, Brace helped Ellar line up the shot.
‘Careful, careful,’ he whispered. ‘Watch the grass, see how the wind’s moving – adjust for range – and breathe out, and…’
Ellar loosed the arrow. It was a near-perfect shot which caught the beast in the breast – it reared and staggered, but the fight went out of it quickly, and after a minute or so it lay down and did not get up. Ellar cried out in triumph and ran to the deer, cutting at its hide. Brace laughed as he followed, and I trailed at the edge of the clearing. I never liked walking near the lakes; the grass feels mossy and soft, and I worry that the ground will crumble away and I’ll fall in and drown.
So I was able to see as a grey, shapely hand appeared out of the water clutching a sword.
Brace heard the noise, I saw him look – the sword was flung from the water and stuck into the turf a couple of feet away. I watched Brace approach it.
‘Hey Brace, am I doing this right?’ Ellar called – it wasn’t his first time butchering a stag, but I don’t think he wanted to damage the fur, and he was nervous. When he didn’t get an answer he huffed. ‘Stop messing around, Brace; come over and…’
He trailed off. Brace was crouched next to the lake, examining the sword – it was a fine blade which gleamed in the sunlight.
‘A kingly gift!’ he breathed. ‘We were chosen for something here…’ He stood and held it up, feeling the weight and the balance. Ellar whistled.
‘That’s some weapon!’ he said. ‘That’s a sword fit for a king, that.’
‘You think it’s a king’s sword?’ He swung it a couple of times, testing the heft. ‘The balance is a little off – I wonder if that’s why they threw it up here?’ He laughed and sheathed it in his belt, next to his knife. ‘Come on – let’s see how you’re doing with that deer.’
He approached the carcass and took out his own knife.
Something broke inside Ellar then. I think it was the way his brother so casually disregarded the sword – seeing it not as a symbol, but as the tool it was. It may have been his taking over the situation; he never made a single cut on the beast’s hide, but it was like Ellar was back to being a kid again, seeing all the things he did wrong, comparing it to Brace’s perfection.
He still held his own knife in his hand.
It was the work of a moment. He held the knife blade-out and jabbed, slicing across his brother’s neck. Brace turned, shock and hurt on his face but not anger, never anger. He fell backwards, splayed against the deer, staining the fur dark with his blood. He gave one final gasp and his eyes unfocused, and Brace was gone from this world.
And that might have been it, had not Ellar’s surviving brothers stalked into the clearing then. They had been meaning to congratulate him on a swift and clean kill for the deer, but seeing him turn that on his brother – their brother – they looked down at the body and up at Ellar, and before they could say anything Ellar had drawn his bow and shot Julius in the heart. That being done, he bent and pulled the sword from Brace’s belt.
‘You bastard!’ Hyram yelled, and charged into him. He was the taller and the stronger, and he was used to sitting on his younger brother as a form of torture, and as he and Ellar tumbled to the ground they yelled and scratched and rolled…
They rolled into the lake.
The lake was cold and dark and deep, and I cannot say what occurred down there. The ripples still and the lake became a mirror of calm for a long minute, and I was worried neither of them would surface. But finally – finally! - there was a splash and, gasping and choking, coughing up freezing lake water, Ellar grabbed onto the turf and hauled himself onto dry land. He lay there, gulping in air, and I saw the water running off the sword was stained pink with blood. Soon he caught his breath and he began shivering, so he got to his feet and crudely carved the hide from the deer. That being done, he wrapped the hide around himself – dressed in silver, he slid the sword into his belt and looked down at his two brothers, their bodies lying cold and accusing.
‘Ellar, what are we going to do?’ I quavered. ‘I mean, we’re alone out here and-’
‘We’ll make our way back.’
I started. He sounded different. Hyram must have been choking him – I could see the red marks around his neck, now I looked closely – and he now had the crackle in his voice that had been Brace’s.
‘We’ve always been alone out here, Quev,’ he continued. ‘I’ve always hunted alone – didn’t have any brothers to show me the way.’
‘But what about-’ I began, but I was startled into silence by the sullen, defiant glare that Ellar shot me. He grabbed Brace’s body by the collar and dragged it over to the lake, where he pushed it in with his foot.
‘I’ve always been alone except for you,’ he said to me, as he dumped Hyram’s body. ‘It’s just the two of us, against the world.’
He tied the deer’s legs and hauled it behind him, and I followed in his wake.
Jannen sat back and twirled her dagger between her fingers. She stared at Quevus, nonplussed, and shrugged.
‘That’s his great secret?’ she asked. ‘He killed his brothers for the sword?’
‘I don’t know that I would call it a secret,’ Quevus replied quietly. ‘It’s… I think he genuinely believes it, your majesty.’
‘Strange. So, what? The sword drove him mad?’
‘I think he always was mad. I think he saw the sword as a way to cement his power and reputation – if he said it with enough conviction, people would follow him as king; likewise, if he pressed that he never had any brothers, then it will be as though it had always been so.’
Quevus yelped as Jannen stuck the dagger in between his splayed fingers, then she pushed her chair back and rose, stretching. The evening sun lanced through the narrow windows, spotlighting the barred gutters that drained blood from the room.
‘That was quite a story, Quevus!’ she said. ‘A deal is a deal; you have the run of the castle and you’re officially part of my court. The guards will show you to your room.’ She opened the door and gestured at the nearest guard; the two heavy hands gripped Quevus’s shoulders again, this time lifting him to his feet and steering him towards the door.
‘Wait, wait!’ Quevus cried. ‘I have so much more I can tell you! His Majesty’s battle plans, troop details, please!’ His nails dug into the doorframe as the guards forced him from the room and down the hall – Jannen rolled her eyes at his retreating screams.
From the darkness at the back of the room, a deep shadow detached itself and approached. Jannen nodded to him cordially.
‘Your Majesty,’ the bald man greeted, bowing.
‘You heard all that?’ Jannen asked her impostor. ‘What do you think to it?’
‘As honest an answer as you’ll get,’ the impostor replied. ‘I think he’s right about King Ellar’s motives and mentality – the man has been thrust into a position he has no idea how to deal with.’
‘And what do you think to Quevus?’
‘A man driven mad by fear. He will be useful as a source of information, but he may be better off dead within the month – do you really have no intention of killing him?’
‘Only when it serves a purpose,’ Jannen said. ‘Until then, let him marinade in his paranoia.’ She turned and ambled down the dark corridors, the impostor following in her wake.
‘Your Majesty,’ he said, ‘I thought it prudent to press King Ellar upon his story while I was there; you might be interested to hear what I learned.’
‘Go ahead,’ Jannen said, and the impostor explained.
Ellar sits and swigs his ale, his nose and cheeks ruddy with warmth. The hall sits quiet, the fires burnt down to embers – his hunters and cooks have long since turned in for the night.
Jannen chuckles lightly, lolling in his chair in a perfect mimic of drunkenness.
‘It’s a good story, a fine story, Your Majesty!’ he says. ‘But… really? The deer and the lake? The week of starvation?’
‘You don’t believe me?’ Ellar asks. His voice is low and even, and he has a guarded look about him. Jannen laughs and slaps the king on the thigh.
‘It’s not that, your majesty!’ he assures Ellar. ‘But it’s all a bit… neat. It’s very storybook; a fine tale for the citizens to rally behind, but it’s not real.’ Ellar barks an unamused laugh, hand gripping the hilt of his sword tightly. Jannen’s eyes flicker to it, and he smiles. He points up to the head which hangs above the throne, the sparkling silver deer.
‘Your hunters may not notice silver thread, but I do,’ he says calmly, meeting Ellar’s gaze.
Ellar stares at Jannen, his eyes hardening, and for a second it seems as though the sword will slip it’s scabbard and the quiet king will end up with it thrust through his chest.
Then, a chuckle escapes his lips. He grins, and slaps Jannen on the shoulder.
‘Your sharp eyes miss nothing!’ he says. ‘Yes, I admit: it wasn’t a silver stag. It was albino – surely you see the white fur beneath – but I had a taxidermist thread it with silver. It was a better symbol to rally behind than the white stag which, while rare, is still seen from time to time around these parts.’
He downs his ale and nods to Jannen.
‘My servants have a bed made up for you, your majesty,’ he says. ‘I think it’s time we turn in – you have a long journey tomorrow, and my courtiers expect me to be fresh and ready for the hunt in the morning.’
Jannen stands and bows.
‘Thank you for your hospitality, your majesty King Ellar,’ he says. ‘And for your story – it has been enlightening.’
‘I’m sure,’ Ellar replies. ‘Keep well, King Jannen – I’ll see you off tomorrow.’
And the two kings part, tomorrow to head their separate ways – Ellar with his hunters and his dogs and his wiles, and Jannen’s impostor with a vault of priceless knowledge.