It was just as the first rays of sunshine were peeking over the horizon, when the blue-gray clouds were indistinguishable from the early dawn sky. A crowd was gathering in that darkness in the courtyard adjacent to the palace, impatient for news and reassurance. Their eyes were held aloft, toward the balcony where the Empress addressed the people. It remained empty. At ground level the gates into the palace hung open, as if limp. Though the interior was dark as midnight there were visible corpses around the doors. None dared approach, so they stood and waited.
The previous night had been one of violence and shrieking, erupting with the sounds of battle just after dark, in the inky blackness of a new moon. Though the screams and the steel echoed in the city for hours, the city guard had been diligently keeping the streets clear. They assured the many witnesses that all was okay, nothing to be concerned about. Now they were gone, and the gates to the palace hung open.
The brilliance of the sun was crawling down the tower, the beckon of dawn and the glory of a new day. It just so happened that, as it reached the balcony and bathed it in light, a single voice from the crowd shouted in alarm. A figure appeared there with their arms stretched over the edge. In one hand was the Crown of the Empress, and in the other hung her robes.
“The Empress is dead!” the figure did shout as they opened their hands. The crown and clothes fell into the crowd.
Such was the alarm and dismay of all in that courtyard that none moved to snatch the precious items. The crown clattered against the stone while the robes still drifted over the heads of those gathered there. Those at the edge of the crowd now realized that there were guards there in unfamiliar uniforms surrounding them from the arcade with spears in hand, no few splattered with blood. Others saw helmets appear on the rooftops around the courtyard. Now the crowd began to seethe with fear and some tried to push their way out but those spears kept them at bay.
“I come now to herald this new dawn with such glorious news, and to welcome you all into the arms of Her Majesty Queen Margaret d’Alentois!”
The crowd stilled. The herald pushed on, hardly bothered.
“Though the Lion of Liossa has been extinguished, I assure you that the Lion of Touraine will keep you more secure and more prosperous than ever! All hail Queen Margaret!”
The crowd murmured, shuffling in place, unsure how to respond. The troops on the rooftops made themselves noticeable, all armed with bows.
“Come, come! Let’s try again,” the herald shouted with arms outstretched once again. “All hail Queen Margaret!”
This time, the crowd obeyed. The shouting could be heard from the harbor, where a small cog drifted out to sea, apparently rudderless and unmanned.
*****
And so Meriall, former empress, found herself on the deck of her damaged cog some days later when the threat of patrolling Tourish ships had passed. She refused to squint when the first sunlight in days shone across her face, such was her resolve to avenge the coup that had stolen her empire and sent her crawling in defeat to sea. Most of her guard lay dead in her palace, and those that remained huddled together on the deck with the remains of their weapons. Also present was her court wizard Perthal and Arthur, the last hero of Liossa.
It was not leisure that brought Meriall to the deck now, but the sighting of a vast armada of ships on the horizon.
“It has to be the Vennicians,” Arthur was saying. “I believe I can make out the Crown on their sails. Surely they go now to meet with Margaret or her court now that we have been driven from the capital.”
Behind him, Perthal nodded. “They will stop us, that much is certain. I can make a disguise for you, lady, and hopefully they will let us be.”
“No. Let us meet them,” Meriall said. “We will not get anywhere on a damaged ship with no provisions. I will treat with them and, perhaps, we may find them keen to help. If not, then the end will come all the swifter. I, for one, am not going to spend one more night aboard this wooden prison.”
And so in some hours the armada had surrounded the small cog. Meriall’s last loyal troops gathered around her with their battered shields. Pleasantries were exchanged and then there was much bustling aboard the cutters that intercepted them. The former empress was a prize, indeed. They were brought up and disarmed, but otherwise not restricted. Arthur, however, was bound and placed under the watch of one of Vennicia’s great heroes: Mathias. His frown on this day was deeper than usual.
When Meriall saw that Mathias was on board the warship but not in command she knew that the Doge himself had to be present, and in just moments a throne was placed before her. Hemarc appeared and sat with a wide grin, quite pleased with his good fortune.
“Empress Meriall!” The Doge’s voice boomed in merriment. “Though I don’t think you are an empress any longer, no? I have received much news on this matter from Her Majesty Queen Margaret.”
“So you have come to pick over the spoils, then?” Meriall replied. “How completely expected. You’ve always been a pirate and a rogue.”
“I see you have not changed even a little!” The old ravager laughed.
He continued, “I am most pleased to see you alive and well, for Margaret has been spinning quite the tale of your demise. Does she intend to tell this lie or does she believe it is the truth? I look forward to discovering the truth of this when I speak to her.”
“Well, it appears that you and I are headed in opposite directions. If you would please allow me to return to my ship and my companions and I will be off.”
“Meriall, please, can you not see what is plainly before your eyes? You will accompany me back to your old citadel. I will then play a remarkable hand of cards at just the precise moment to topple Margaret’s designs there. You see,” Hemarc began, a twinkle in his eye, “just when the crafty queen reveals whatever plot or contrivance she means to hoodwink me I will, instead, reveal the greatest trick of all.”
Hemarc waited then, looking at Meriall expectantly. She glared back, uninterested in his amusements.
“I will reveal my new bride,” he said finally.
“For god’s sake, man!” this from Arthur, unable to hold his tongue.
Hemarc ignored him and raised his eyebrows at Meriall.
“Ah, so that you may lay claim to my old empire.”
“Exactly!” he shouted, jumping to his feet. “Oh, how fortuitous our meeting! How splendid my fortune!”
Hemarc continued to congratulate himself. Meriall, rather than witness such a display, turned slowly to Perthal and whispered new instructions. Perthall nodded sagely, as is the custom of wizards. Meriall returned her attention to Hemarc, who was none the wiser, but it was quite unlikely he would have realized even if he had noticed, for he was a sea-raider, and the gift of discernment in these matters was never in his possession.
“And what if Margaret has foreseen such complications? Perhaps she is laying a trap for you in our citadel,” Arthur said.
Hemarc dismissed this with a wave of his hand, once again sitting on his throne. “Please, Arthur, Margaret was able easily thwart some of us here, but I do not think I am as weak to her designs as you.”
“Always the braggart, Hemarc. You cannot believe you will fare better against her?” Arthur said.
“An excellent point. When I, too, am in chains I shall make sure to reevaluate my position.”
“Perhaps that time has already come, and you have not realized it,” this from Meriall.
“Meriall, lady, I have such respect for you, but the threats and the defiance under these circumstances is really beneath you. You must see that your goose is cooked. I, however, have arrived just in time to uncook your goose, as it were.”
The Doge paused there, expecting a laugh. When nobody obliged he shrugged and continued.
“Anyway, please come forth and accept my offer of marriage. I have just the officiant here on board, a member of the clergy, even. By the time we arrive in Liossa you will be a queen.”
And then Meriall, with face of stone, stepped from the protection of her guard and allowed herself to be wed to the doge Hemarc. She bore this indignity without affect. It was only after the ceremony was completed, to the satisfaction of all, and the relevant documents were drawn up and signed, that she let even the corner of her mouth turn upward into a smile.
“What is this?” Hemarc said, “has my wife come to see the many benefits of this arrangement?”
Before he could continue, Meriall took a half step backwards. Perthal, seeing his chance to fulfill the instructions of his empress, leapt from the company of guardsmen with one hand extended. He pantomimed shooting an arrow, drawing carefully before letting loose with a flourish. In that instant a projectile arced across the deck, uprooting the planks beneath as it passed. It appeared as a comet, a bright and flaming thing. It struck the center of Hemarc’s breastplate with a flash of unnatural light, though the impact appeared to have no effect on the man. The thing started to burn its way through the steel, a ring of molten metal dribbling down Hemarc’s breastplate. Hemarc tried to claw the thing out, but his fingers burned away, melted like wax, with even the slightest touch. Attendants dove forward, trying to pull the armor off of him.
None of these actions was enough to free Hemarc from his fate. He let out a soft groan, smoke escaping from his mouth, the last second of peace before his flesh exploded outward in a rain of blood and viscera. His armor simply fell to the deck on top of the newly formed pile of steaming meat, the entire scene leaking smoke. The scene lasted only a fraction of the time it takes to tell, and the helpless troops could only stare in stunned silence when it was done.
The crown had landed some distance away, splattered with blood and melting onto the deck. Meriall’s entire right side was bright red, the blood bisecting her almost perfectly. All eyes were on her as she walked over to the crown. She took up the remains of the crown, once golden and now tarnished and ruined, and shook it free of most of the blood and melted metal. The remaining piece was scarcely larger than her hand.
In front of all and with great pomp Meriall Bryton placed the crown in her hair as a tiara. She beckoned to the waiting troops, “Will you not proclaim your queen?”
Her guard wasted no time in acclaiming the new queen. “Hail, queen Meriall!”
She beckoned a second time, more shouts rising over the armada. In moments the crowd roared Meriall’s accession to queen. It was at this time all eyes turned to Mathias, still standing over Arthur. He glanced around, frown deep as ever, before dropping solemnly to his knee.
“Hail, queen Meriall.”
*****
While Margaret celebrated her victory and Meriall made all speed to her new country, proud king Randoul IV of Areteria faced his own reckoning.
“The forest has spoken,” the raspy voice of the mystic informed him, “the days of Randoul have come to an end.”
“But surely this is in jest,” the king said, “I and my fathers have ruled this land justly! Who can take this divine right from me?”
“The rightful king returns for that which is his,” the mystic replied.
“I declare you false. You spin lies upon lies, and I will not suffer you a moment longer!”
The king called for his guards, but he saw now that he was alone in the throne room, save the mystic. He looked around incredulously. Where had the servants and guards gone? The mystic chuckled softly. Randoul stood in anger and made to draw his sword. As his hand clasped the hilt the light in the room vanished, the many candles snuffed by an unseen force. A sickly, pale illumination leaned in from the windows, piercing the darkness.
“What devilry is this?” Randoul whispered to himself.
“There is still time, my lord, to abdicate the throne and leave this realm to itself,” the mystic said.
“This realm is mine! I will not see it in the hands of another!”
At the far end of the hall the door began to open, creaking ominously. It came to rest with a huff, as if exhaling. Through the door came a stag, impossibly large, antlers dripping with blood. It should not have been able to fit through the portal, yet it stood. Randoul tried to pull his sword, but it remained locked in place.
“Curse this sword and the scabbard that moves against me. Curse this stag who makes entrance to my hall. And curse you, wizard or mystic or magician, I will not yield.”
The stag stepped further into the room, the footfalls rumbling like thunder against the stone. The king tried to curse the beast again, but his voice cracked and faltered.
Atop the great stag was a throne, and upon it was a knight in green. He bore the colors of Areteria but the crest of a stag. He spoke, in a voice like an earthquake, where each word was a boulder crushing upon boulder.
“I am Horsa, son of Ketton, here to return the land of the Fyrthings to its people.”
“I do not believe this,” Randoul said.
“Begone from this place, false king, or I will remove you myself,” Horsa said.
Randoul, in the shadow of the great stag, could not find the words to respond, and his silence became his answer.
