The King's Banquet Page 3

Belash snorted and grunted another obscenity.

  Kyung-Su laughed again. The low tinkling melody didn’t do anything to improve Belash’s mood.

  Prince Amsaovor tapped his staff on the floor, and the figures he’d conjured split into two, blue kilts on one side, and greens on the other. Belash saw his face crease in concentration, and the stone on his staff glowed even brighter.

  The exiled prince tapped his staff on the floor again and Belash half jumped out of his seat, as the blue and green clad conjured figures tore at each other with high-pitched shrieks that echoed through the hall.

  The sound of shields and weapons clashing rang out. Spears found phantom flesh, cries of pain rang out, blood spurted, and phantom bodies fell. The kings leaned forward in their thrones, eyes wide as they took in the spectacle, and gasps and cries of excitement came from the assemblage.

  Belash glanced around at the tables nearest him and Kyung-Su. Bloodlust shone in haughty wine-flushed faces. Many were quaffing mightily from goblets, goodly amounts of their contents splashing unheeded onto richly-embroidered tunics. Others held haunches of roast boar to their mouths, jaws working frenziedly. All were on their feet in excitement, shouting and gesticulating.

  On the nearest table, a woman – face painted white, lips ruby-red, and neck sagging under rolls of fat, gripped her companion’s arm, finger nails drawing blood. Pupils dilated, and lips parted, her eyes were fixed on the unfolding spectacle. Her companion’s other arm moved and twitched under the table. It appeared the combination of strong wine and watching lithe, half-naked figures in frenzied action, had awakened urges that caused them to abandon restraint. It mattered not the black man had said the figures were not real.

  Belash shook his head and looked away, returning his gaze to the phantom warriors who looked real enough to him. A squat powerfully built Blue, considerably shorter than his fellows, caught his eye. Belash could relate to him, but sadly it seemed he wouldn’t last much longer for he had lost his shield.

  Belash’s eyes widened in surprise as the squat subject of his attention leapt high, knees tight to his chest. His right leg snapped out, foot slamming into a Green’s shield, hurling him to the floor. Simultaneously, he plunged the spear in his left hand into another Green’s throat.

  As he landed on his feet, the squat Blue ducked under a shield swinging at his head and sank his spear deep into the belly of a Green. The stricken figure fell, spear still in its belly.

  Now weaponless, the squat Blue looked doomed for he was the only Blue left standing and four fully armed Greens faced him.

  A Green stepped forward, shield held high and spear thrusting. The lone Blue twisted away, grasped the spear haft, and continuing his momentum, hurled the Green into his fellows. There was a melee of bodies and entangled limbs, then with a piecing shriek the squat Blue was among them.

  Belash was shocked at the speed and variety of his attacks as he leapt and spun in a flurry of limbs, his heels, edges of his feet, knees and elbows striking the Greens with devastating effect. Three of the Greens went down and lay unmoving, but the fourth, ducking under a kick, thrust his spear into the Blue’s groin.

  Belash’s groan of disappointment was echoed around the hall as the Blue crumpled to the ground.

  Prince Amsaovor taped his staff on the floor and all the figures disappeared, together with the spilled blood and discarded weapons. It was as if they were never there. A roar of appreciation came from the assemblage.

  Amsaovor turned, bowed to the kings and walked over to Belash and Kyung-Su. “I’ve had the misfortune of sitting with two most disagreeable table partners all night, who insisted on rubbing my arm to see if the color came off,” he said. “It would be good to sit with two warriors, particularly when one is the most beautiful woman in the hall.”

  “Belash and I would be honored to have you sit with us, Prince Amsaovor,” Kyung-Su said, glancing at Belash. The look on the Axeman’s face said otherwise, but he didn’t voice his displeasure.

  Prince Amsaovor sat and held up an empty goblet for a passing serving maid to fill. Belash studied him as he drank and engaged Kyung-Su – whom he was clearly taken with – in small talk.

  Close up, Belash was astounded at the unusual lustre of the man’s dark skin and the contrast with the white of his teeth and eyes. Like the aforementioned disagreeable table partners, he too was minded to run a hand along the man’s arm, but thankfully, managed to resist the urge. “That must take powerful magick…to conjure smoke and turn it into men,” he said. “And I’ve never seen men fight like that before…jumping, flying through the air and using their knees and feet in such a fashion.”

  “The power lies in the stone on my staff.” Amsaovor said. “A power only those of the royal line can wield. We can conjure images to help train our young warriors, or re-enact events from our past, such as you just saw. The stone has many other uses…but this isn’t the place to talk about those.”

  “And the fighting skills we just saw with the hands and feet?” Belash asked.

  “Ah, all our warriors learn those as well as the use of spear, axe, knife and shield” Amsaovor said.

  “We have similar in Gaekche,” Kyung-Su said

  “And women are permitted to learn them?” Amsaovor’s brow lifted as he gazed at Kyung-Su.

  “Women are some of the fiercest warriors in Gaekche,” Kyung-Su said. “I started training in arms when I was a mere ten summers and was a match for most men at eighteen.”

  “Now, that is something,” the prince said, his eyes never leaving Kyung-Su. “Our women are pampered…soft and obsessed with preening and painting themselves to attract husbands who will fill their wombs with seed.” He shook his head ruefully. “I believe a woman should stand tall, proud and fierce at her man’s side, not simper in the shadows with a painted face and soft belly.”

  Kyung-Su leaned forward. “Tell me more, Prince Amsaovor.”

  Belash rolled his eyes, sat back in his chair, lifted his goblet to his mouth and drank deeply.

  Crimson Mist

  Up on the kings’ platform, King Arron-Borranus of Pallania, leaned his head closer to King Lorranis-Halbro. “It’s been a fine night laid on, a befitting one to honor the heroes who delivered us from the horror of the soul drinkers.”

  Lorranis-Halbro nodded. “We are grateful for your compliments, Arron-Borranus King, but it is the least we could do, for many of us wouldn’t be here now but for the two we have gathered here to honor.” He kept his tone neutral for he knew from experience, it was best to be wary with compliments from his neighbor-king.

  “It has been a most magnificent night, but if you permit, I’ve a…should we say…a suggestion, that would round off the celebrations in a…most…most… magnificent manner.” Arron-Borranus said, voice slurring with wine.

  Lorranis-Halbro looked into the man’s small cunning eyes and knew with grim certainty he wasn’t going to like the suggestion. “Pray tell, Arron-Borranus King,” he said, trying to dismiss his disquiet. “This is the night of all nights, and anything that would serve to make it even more memorable is welcome.”

  Arron-Borranus glanced over his shoulder at the tall cold-eyed man standing behind his throne. “My champion, Atrias, wished to join the fight against the Gualich, but I refused to permit it. It was too risky. Risky for me…as I didn’t want to lose the protection of his sword, and risky for him, for Beleth, or was it Kbari, would have drank his soul like so much fine wine.”

  Lorranis-Halbro could feel his irritation growing. He wished the dung heap of a king would stop blowing wind and get to the point.

  “As he was denied the glory of defeating the soul drinkers, he would like to match weapons with those who did. However, the idea of fighting a woman – even one as skilled as your guest from Gaekche is beneath him. What say you Lorranis-Halbro King, to a friendly display of weapons craft between the finest swordsman in Pallania and your…Belash the demon slayer? It would be a perfect ending to the evening.”

  Lorra
nis-Halbro’s irritation developed into anger but he kept his face expressionless for he didn’t want to reveal the extent of his disquiet to Arron-Borranus. He sat back in his throne and signaled a serving maid to attend him as he considered his response.

  The idea of having a man who’d helped deliver the land from the horror of the soul eaters, provide amusement in a so-called weapons display was uncharitable to say the least. And he had no illusions about it being friendly, for he knew Arron-Borranus would instruct his man to kill Belash. If he succeeded, it would mean a great loss of face for him and Mellania.

  He cursed the man under his breath as he considered his quandary. Refusing the request would also cause him loss of face. Sneaking a glance at Arron-Borranus, he saw the man studying him, thin lips curled in a mocking half smile.

  King Lorranis-Halbro drained the contents of his goblet and pushed himself to his feet. He steadied himself as he momentarily lost his balance, belched and cast a bleary gaze over the assemblage.

  He scratched gingerly at the boil that had taken root under his left armpit some days earlier. His physician had given him a comfrey poultice to apply to it, but all that did was make it even more itchy. Taking a deep breath, he lifted his arms to call for silence.

  “The night draws to a close,” he announced, “and it has been a fine one indeed. We have drunk much wine and eaten good food. Prince Amsaovor has entertained us with a…wondrous spectacle and we have honored Belash and Kyung-Su for their heroic deeds. Our beds beckon, but King Arron-Borranus of Pallania and I have put our heads together and decided on a perfect spectacle to send us on our slumbers. A friendly display of weapons craft between Arron Borranus’s champion, the renowned swordsman Atrias, and Belash the demon slayer!”

  The great hall erupted in shouts of excitement with much banging of tankards and goblets on tables.

  Belash blinked. Unsure if he had heard the king’s words correctly through his wine-blunted senses, he glanced at his companions for verification. The looks on their faces told him all he needed to know.

  “What say you, Belash the great demon slayer!” Lorranis-Halbro called to him. “Will you perform one last duty for your king and all assembled here? Another deed that will be spoken of for years to come?”

  Belash looked up, meeting his king’s gaze. Anger simmered in him. For the first time in his life, he had felt a man of worth – of respect and accomplishment. This great gathering was to honor him, and his name had rung out in praise, but it was all a lie. To the kings, pompous and all-powerful on their thrones and the high and mighty with their fat painted wives, he amounted to little more than dry goat dung.

  Belash stood and looked along the line of kings. He stopped at Arron-Borranus and his eyes flicked up to meet the gaze of Atrias standing behind his king. Tall, lean and arrogant, his eyes were cold and challenging. This would be no friendly display of weapons craft. The man intended to kill him. He looked along the line of champions behind their respective kings. They too watched him, eyes calculating, assessing…challenging. He knew then that should he best Atrias, they would also challenge him.

  Belash’s anger grew. He was going to die this night. One that had promised to be the greatest night of his life. Well, if he was to die, it would be in a manner of his own choosing. He pulled his shoulders back and stared at the man who purported to be his king. “A pox on you all. You are no more kings than the boil on my backside! You squat on those thrones only because your dung heap ancestors stole and conquered lands that didn’t belong to them in the first place. I’ll not fight and die for your amusement.”

  There was a collective intake of breath from the assemblage. King Lorranis-Halbro’s face went puce with rage. “You dare, dwarf? You would defy me?” He raised his voice. “Guards! Take him!”

  Royal guards positioned along the walls moved forward, hands on sword hilts. Belash reached down and grasped the haft of Ausak Demon Bane. The axe was leaning against his table. He had been unsure about bringing it along, but a whisper in his mind had persuaded him.

  “There will be no need for guards!” cried Atrias, stepping forward and vaulting from the kings’ platform. “With your permission my lords, I’ll have the dwarf down soon enough, and we’ll see his balls roast on hot coals before the night is done!”

  Belash ducked as the onrushing Atrias’s sword slashed at his neck. He grunted in pain and lights danced before eyes as the sword edge glanced off the thick brass circlet he wore to keep his unruly dark hair from his face. He swept his axe up and hammered it into his attacker’s side.

  Ausak Demon Bane tore through Atrias’s ribs in a welter of blood and bone splinters. King Arron-Borranus’s champion’s eyes bulged in shock and pain as his sword clattered to the floor.

  “Roast my stones on hot coals now, you pigging whoreson,” Belash snarled as the stricken man fell.

  There was a momentary hush as the assemblage took in the sudden burst of violence, then bedlam ensued with men shouting, women screaming and those near Belash’s table scrambling to get away.

  Belash raised his bloody axe high and glared at the kings as they started from their thrones, shocked at the unexpected turn of events. Eyes blazing, he snarled his defiance. “Come, send more of your dogs, kings of nothing. I’ll send them all on the dark road.”

  “Guards take him!” screamed Lorranis-Halbro.”

  Taking three running steps, Belash vaulted onto the nearest table and axe swinging, leapt into the knot of guards who had pushed clear of panicking revelers eager to get away from the wild-eyed madman and his blood smeared axe.

  Belash hit the guards like a raging storm, several sent sprawling by his hurtling body. Ausak tore a bloody swathe through those still standing, hacking away limbs, splintering ribs and crunching skulls.

  Other guards from around the hall rushed in to aid their fellows, but Belash in his raging bloodlust, was like a man possessed. Screaming incoherently, his squat powerful frame splattered in gore, he wrecked a bloody havoc through the guardsmen. Many lay sprawled twitching on the floor with ghastly wounds, others staggered away clutching stumps of severed arms and some crawled away, moaning in pain as they trailed blood from severed legs.

  Faced with the blood drenched demon that was Belash, the less-brave or perhaps less-foolhardy, stumbled back, eager to be away from the gore-dripping black blades of the fearsome axe.

  For those determined to press the fight, their sheer numbers encumbered them. Unable to free their sword arms in the crush of bodies, many fell. Belash, free in the knowledge that all those around him were enemies, and having no need to curtail his attacks, hacked away with grim, bloody abandon.

  But Belash was still one man surrounded by a slew of guardsmen intent on bringing him down. Some of the blood covering him was his. He staggered as the hilt of a flung dagger bounced off his cheekbone, and almost dropped Ausak as a sword point lanced into the fleshy part of his shoulder.

  Roaring with anger, he kicked the offending swordsman between the legs, and pulled him into a vicious head butt as he slumped forward.

  Pain flared high on his back from a sword cut. Twisting, he swung Ausak in a powerful reverse cut that shattered his attacker’s hip bone.

  Merriment and celebration had held sway as the assemblage drank and ate and the great hall of Crag Halbrosin echoed with Belash’s name. Belash the savior, Belash the demon slayer, Belash the hero of all Mellania.

  But now, blood and death held sway as the great hall echoed with the ring of clashing weapons, the dull crunch of axe blade sundering flesh and bone, and the cries of the wounded and dying

  The flat of a sword bounced off Belash’s skull, and as he staggered from the impact, a sword point plunged into his side, and a sword edge sliced through the muscles of his right thigh. Body awash with pain, and head ringing, he fell to one knee.

  Barrel chest heaving as he sucked in air, Belash glared defiantly at the ring of guardsmen through the red mask of his face.

  Their quarry was down, sorely
wounded. But the guardsmen warily eyeing the crimson demon before them didn’t move in for the kill, for none wanted to come within range of those terrible axe blades.

  They knew the axe was an ensorcelled weapon that could kill demons, and perhaps surmised such a weapon would also confer its bearer with abilities beyond other warriors. Ausak Demon Bane did enhance the senses and physical abilities of its bearer, but only when faced with sorcerous or demonic foes.

  The guardsmen were right to fear Ausak, for it was a terrifying weapon that had drunk the blood of countless men over many centuries. But they should have feared the man more, for this night, faced with human foes, it was purely Belash’s rage, muscle and sinew that powered the axe.

  The brief lull wasn’t long-lived. A knot of kings’ champions led by a big man with a red forked beard bushed through the guardsmen.

  “Cowards!” snarled Forked Beard. “He is but one man.”

  “Not anymore,” Kyung-Su said, as she and the tall figure of Amsaovor pushed their way through to stand either side of the stricken Belash.

  Belash grinned at Kyung-Su as he grasped her proffered hand and pulled himself to his feet. “What kept you, my love?”

  There was the merest glint of humor in Kyung-Su’s cold grey eyes. “Why, dear heart, I couldn’t bear the thought of going on without you.” The sliver of humor disappeared as she drew her swords and regarded the kings’ champions and guardsmen.

  Forked Beard’s eyes betrayed his uncertainty at the unexpected turn of events. “This isn’t your fight, black man,” he said, addressing Amsaovor.

  “If this is how you people reward a brave man you all owe so much to, then it is my fight,” Amsaovor said. “And, my place is now beside my lady here, and I won’t see her come to harm, though I doubt boot-licking dogs such as you could harm her.”

  “What are you cowards waiting for,” came a voice from the kings’ platform. “Kill them all!”

  Taking his cue, Forked Beard lunged forward, his sword darting at Amsaovor’s throat like a serpent’s tongue.