The Blue King

Serpentine sigils on red banners slithered in the wind, as the largest army ever summoned on thiscontinent stood and watched their King. A bloody sun was setting, casting long shadows of these men and horses toward the ancient Keep of the Alting, which towered like a challenger toward the light.

Gedreid and his lance were silent, as were the five thousand other lances whose steel glittered along with the impending day. Gedreid’s captain, the knighted man-at-arms who sat upon an impatient warhorse, stared at the walls of the keep, before his attention was ripped away from it by the impending escort of King Orphem. His dark blue mantle made him easy to spot in the sea of yellow-green grass and an army that wore red.

As Gedreid followed his captain’s eyes to the King, mounted and moving through his army like a tall, seafaring vessel, his thoughts were immediately drawn to the dark innards of Gravhaug’s walls; there, he and his fellow archers about to go on watch listened to whispered rumors of their blue king, and of the blue magic that had been bestowed upon him. Gedreid thought of this, looking upon the King Orphem, and felt the mental equivalent of a shrug. The king was surely powerful, authoritative, even intimidating beyond what would be expected of his already lofty station, but beyond that… Gedreid saw no magic. He did see, however, how his stoic, veteran captain looked at the King. Even with the visor of the captain’s gleaming, emotionless helm – that look had magic in it. Gedreid couldn’t quite form a sentence that made more sense than that. The look simply had magic.

Gedreid felt his bowstring, taut around his torso, and he tightened his grip on the short sword that hung at his side. His captain watched the blue king.

…

Old men in gold chattered among themselves as summer crimson beamed through the grilled iron openings of this high chamber. Their voices were low, almost conspiratorial, as they awaited their guest for this meeting between the most powerful folk on the continent. A few spoke of Denorman raids or their tariffs on the Sudaean regents or the like, and these were the ones that bothered Saliman the most. While they refused to speak on the army columned outside, Saliman saw the sweat that gathered on their brows and the way their mouths slipped on simple diction. A few spoke openly about the real matter at hand, but an even lesser amount of them were utterly silent. Saliman found himself most comforted by the quiet ones.

The space and chattering was invaded, suddenly, as the two iron doors that dominated the southern wall of the chamber was suddenly opened. Saliman straightened; this guest was not his king, but a king nonetheless, and custom required he come to attention as an armed royal servant. As Saliman stared straight ahead, the procession seemed to be limited to his peripherals as a man blew a one-handed carnyx before announcing: “King Sythi Orphem, son of Arald Orphem, Lord of Gravhaug, Sentry of the Southern Coast.”

A heavy clinking of armor dominated the room as, Saliman could only assume from his vantage, the blue king himself entered the chamber donning armor of war. As he did so, he came into Saliman’s vision: the young king was, by every metric, an average man. He was of slight build – skinny, even – and carried himself like a grim priest. The only notable features that his form carried was his raven-black hair and a pair of ice-colored eyes, which each had a dark ring of fatigue about them; beyond that, of course, was the fact he was suited in steel regalia meant for battle. The King Orphem stood at the end of the long table of his fellow kings, and did not move, as if he was expecting something.

To answer his expectations was the grumbling speech of King Carinous of Oxeblad, a blonde and bearded man of impressive size. “This impetuous show. Do you mean to intimidate us? To display your venomous fangs, snake-king? By doing so, you only prove our purpose.”

Another king spoke, this time the red-haired Olunblud of the northeast: “This was a mistake, Sythi. The Alting has ousted men for far less than this. Your lineage will be stained, and rendered station-less.”

King Orphem stood, regarding Olunblod and Carinous, then the rest of the kings with a tired gaze. With a low, almost meek tone, he responded: “Would all men, besides those of the highest station, leave the room.”

His fellow kings stared at him for a moment, before Carinous reacted with a flick of his wrist. His own personal guard shuffled out the iron doors. The rest of the kings slowly followed suit; however, Saliman felt himself wince when he heard the voice of his own liege break the quiet.

“Mine stay,” said Saliman’s own King Kjelmoor, in a tone that did not invite objection. And so, as Saliman and his three peers stood still, King Orphem looked at them. And he shrugged.

“So be it,” the blue king said. When the room was full of nothing but kings and the four knights that included Saliman among them, a slave shut the heavy iron doors. With that, King Orphem took his seat at the table of the Alting.

The young, black-haired king drummed steel gauntlets on the table as he regarded the older men sat around him, each staring at him with expectant eyes. Some held venom, some held outright malice, others frustration, and a few seemed to hold only curiosity.

“I have made it known to you each,” King Sythi Orphem began, “that we are being manipulated. There is one in particular, who feasts on the blood of battlefields. A crimson force.”

“Yes, yes, we’ve read your letters,” spat King Kjelmoor. “Words of a lunatic, unbefitting the son of Arald.”

Many of the men murmured in agreement, but these were the younger kings. The older ones remained silent, until chief eldest among them parted his white beard. “King Orphem, our bloodlines are divinely ordained,” rasped the Old King Avanteir. “If those who rule nature… control us, as you claim, it is our duty to comply. And certainly not outright deny them.” At this, the elder kings nodded their heads.

“You see them as… the shepherds of this world. Creators.” King Orphem leaned back in his chair, steel plate sliding against steel plate. “They are not. They are symptoms of it. Like a hurricane, or an earthquake. Or a plague.”

With a low growl, King Kjelmoor spoke, his voice laced with violence. “For your sake, Sythi, I hope you are mad. If you are not, you willingly spread heresy.”

King Orphem looked at Kjelmoor, his eyes tired. Melancholic. For a minute, one could assume he was thinking about how to respond in his silence, but instead of a retort, the young king simply stood from his chair. His sabatons tapping against the stone floor, he approached one of the tall windows until his body was enveloped in the red light of the summer sun. And there he remained, for two more long minutes, looking out at the ember horizon.

Eventually, King Carinous rose, pushing aside parchment and nearly toppling a goblet of mead. “Are we done with this?” the blonde king questioned. “The decision is brought before the Alting: evict the snake-king Sythi Orphem from his station as king and sentry of the southern coast, and ruler of Gravhaug. I say aye.”

The room was suddenly filled with noise as the rest of the kings of Rejkya affirmed their support of the proposal, but a few were slower than others. Namely, the King Olunblod, who waited until the room was silent to open his mouth; however, as he began to speak, his words caught in his throat upon his own gaze reaching the red silhouette of King Orphem. Mouth hanging open, Olunblud only managed a wavering, pointing finger.

As the men of the Alting each turned their attention to King Orphem, they found that the red light that was pouring through the window was… dimming. Slowly, the crimson melted away, until all that was left was a dark shade of dim, blue light. It was a color that made Saliman think of death.

…

Gedreid fought the urge to shuffle his weight; his feet were beginning to hurt in these new leather boots. He and his lance had been standing here for hours, and for the first time since leaving Gravhaug, he found himself wishing for orders to march. But they did not come. Absently, he looked up at his captain, who seemed to be staring at a particular spot high in one of the keep’s inner towers.

“Have you spotted something, Sir?” murmured Gedreid. The captain tore his gaze from the tower, toward Gedreid, as if ripped from a trance. Looking down at him, the knight spoke: “No. And stop talking. Your job right now is to be bored. Enjoy it while it lasts.”

But while the captain spoke, Gedreid found himself attracted by an odd reflection on the knighted helm; the king’s azure mantle, wavering in the heat and shimmering surface of the captain’s steel. Gedreid turned to seek its source.

It was the sun itself – crimson melting away into fiery, bright cobalt.

At the same time Gedreid noticed, so did many of his twenty thousand peers. The sounds of the field was soon filled with men shuffling to turn, their armor clanking, and countless inhalations of awe as the sun and its light began to bathe the sky and ground in dim blue, like that of an ocean.

Gedreid, staring at the darkened sun changing its very visage, heard his captain speak: “Offspring of the Alfadir, have mercy on our souls.”