A King is Made
Rojer, High Vizier and Necromancer, rides with Chalif and the Barons to retrieve the Sword of Kings. The gruesome scene inspires fealty from the Barons, but Chalif is shaken.
Book One: Sight Out of Time | Episode 1.2
[This series is rated “Mature” for thematic elements, sensuality, and violence.]
_+ in the days of Chalif King, a dark and foggy sky full of carrion crows
Rojer, High Vizier of the North, was a tall man with a wide face and rarely seen without a black hood. What he did not have in brawn he certainly had in cunning, swordplay, and most notably, dark magic. All the rumors spoken about Rojer High Vizier were true, because Rojer himself had started them. Like tiny wildfires in the minds of the people, speculation of his nefarious deeds and intentions gradually swelled until all the people feared him. All the better; he did not have to exert energy and attention controlling the people. They were managed by their own fear. Rojer’s plans rarely went awry, and his only redeeming quality was that he never took that fact for granted. Always grateful when his necromancy proved fruitful, never bitter when intentions turned unexpectedly away from his desires.
Rojer was a patient sorcerer playing a very long game. So long in fact, that each move closer to the throne of the North went entirely unnoticed by Chalif King. For years, Rojer had subverted Chalif’s spies (whom he usually turned to crows and then sacrificed on his altar). In the early days, when Chalif was harassing the Barons and fighting to take the throne from Ulun, he was naive enough to send women to seduce Rojer and discover his secrets. Imperviousness to feminine charm was the first discipline Rojer had taught himself and it served him well his whole life. Each time he was faced with such a temptation, he would feign deep and abiding love for the woman, hide her away, sire children, and then sacrifice all of them in complex, disgusting, deplorable ceremonies to compound his magic and maintain unnatural physical vigor.
It was said Rojer High Vizier was so full of blood magic, his breath smelled of hot, wet iron…which one could never confirm without falling dead a moment later, succumbing to his deadly three-word spells. Rojer took pleasure in the poetry of his rumors. He found the more embellished stories had stronger roots and wrought higher nutrition for the tree of magic curled ‘round his soul. The whole of his life was like a garden of maggots, blood, and taxadermied specimens, carefully tended and curated for his pleasure. Rojer was an artist.
The horses did not like the rocky mountain trail they were climbing this sober, soggy day. A few of the Barons complained, but it exposed their fear to Chalif and Dread Rojer leading the royal caravan, so the whining was short-lived. Carcasses appeared to them in sequence as Chalif described they would find them. First, the juvenile red dragon with the very sharp claws, caught in the branches of a dead tree, thick black blood still dripping to the forest floor from its throat. In a clearing further up the path, among a series of large boulders, were strewn the heads, limbs, and bodies of the other two, mature yellow and green dragons. Rojer surmised by the markings they were fraternal twins rather than mates, as the juvenile bore no markings and lacked a crest. He was interested in retrieving artifacts from the dragons, but couldn’t be bothered to dismount and gather it himself. He instructed the court trappers in charge of taxidermy to harvest blood and curios for him, as he trusted their knowledge of dragon anatomy, and there was a magic property in any piece of the animal.
As the caravan entered the middle of the battle field among the boulders, the mist grew dense and the sky dimmed. The surrounding trees did not stir. Many of the ancient trees the circumference of small houses were cracked, felled, or still smoking where they had been burning with dragon fire in the middle of the downpour the night of Chalif’s victory. There were no tiny, friendly creatures making daytime noises. Not even the chirping of locusts. Only the occasional faint caw of crows aft the treetops beyond.
The Barons were affected greatly by what they saw. Many had never seen a dragon, let alone one in pieces. Hearing their gasps, Chalif turned his horse to face the lot. Some Barons fixated on the majestic dragon heads, full of teeth and crowned with brassy horns. Other Barons stared at Chalif’s week-old wounds, still bleeding through the bandages though sewn and poulticed. Not one man dared to speak, least of all Chalif. He feared his dread of the final scene would become apparent to the men he sought to intimidate.
Just then, a paige stumbled near a pool of dragon blood and dropped his torch. Igniting the pool, he nearly burned the lashes from his eyes in the flash of fire that erupted. The horses spooked, and as the Barons were suddenly engaged in calming them, Rojer laughed.
“Chalif King, these boys will not take their ponies to the giant’s door,” said Rojer. “They will lie to their women and children, manservants and maids—yea, arms like trees, and feet like wagons—we should leave them to their tall tales of cowardice, shaking in their fur robes among the ruins of dragons.”
With a grave look to his vizier, Chalif turned and urged his steed up the steep path to the landing less than a mile away. Every Baron followed (albeit, at a distinct distance from Rojer) and a handful of the most skilled trappers brought up the rear with a huge handcart and their mighty axes and saws. The closer they drew to the giant’s door, the trees began to rustle. Birds of prey were perching solemnly in the branches, watching the intrepid trespassers without blink. Great owls, hawks, and falcons. Massive eagles and a few rare razor-billed darts. When the trees cleared, all that could be seen was a whirlwind of ravens, crows, and blackbirds circling the clearing. The din of a thousand beating wings hammered their skulls.
Chalif dismounted. He removed his shoes, his shirt, and then the circlet from his head, tossing them all to the ground. He smeared mud on his face, beard, and chest and walked into the column of birds. They dispersed to the surrounding trees with a brief but deafening wave of caws. No one, not even Rojer, was prepared for what their eyes met: Chalif’s sacred weapon, the Sword of Kings, still embedded in the bosom of the Mountain Dweller.
Rojer’s breath caught for a moment at the sight of the fallen giant. The being was larger than he thought it would have been, more human in form than he expected, and marvelous, especially in death.
The air was so still, a baron could be heard muttering to himself, “It is the end of an age.”
Rojer dismounted instantly, taking his knapsack of pots and jars from the saddle and, obscuring them in his cloak, he followed Chalif to the site of the wound. The trappers followed Rojer, and most of the them made sacred gestures over their faces and muttered their excuses to deity for the deeds they were about to commit. The sound of vomiting came from one or two of the barons in the back of the party.
Chalif took the hilt of his sword and paused a long while. Rojer followed Chalif’s gaze to the magnificent, giant sword in the boulder, already covered in a film of dull gray oxidation. Chalif then returned his eyes to the Sword of Kings embedded between the ribs of the holy outlander. His own sword, made sacred by merciless conquest, seemed primitive and unsophisticated in comparison, like a fork in a potato.
“How sharp his sword must be,” whispered Chalif, distant from his own breath.
“Reclaim your sword, my King,” said Rojer. “Claim your glory from the Barons and rule the whole world.”
Determined, Chalif finally pulled his sword from the giant and held it aloft to the Barons. They dismounted their horses with awe and each genuflected to his King. Rojer collected a liter of the giant’s cerulean blood, thickening with clots. This blue blood dribbled from the sword over Chalif’s fingers and down his forearm. Overcome again with undesired emotion, Chalif held posture only long enough for the remainder of the Barons to bend before him and acknowledge him sire. Then he threw the sword to the ground on top of his circlet, mounted his horse and trotted away.
“Sire, the crown and sword!” called a Baron.
Wiping unwelcome tears from his eyes and turning with fury to the crowd, Chalif answered, “Your smiths will forge me a new sword and a new crown! No relic prior to this deed is worthy of me; understood?”
“Yes, my King,” they muttered as he galloped down the mountain lowering his eyes from the penetrating stares of shame the noble birds served him as he retreated.
One by one, the Barons followed, leaving Rojer and the professionals to secure the royal trophy.
“Harvest the organs and plaits of the hair,” Rojer instructed the trappers. “And make me a leather of the chest with the markings. Use your finest liquor; spare no expense.”
“What of the head, my lord?” asked the taxidermist. “Will it indeed sit below the throne?”
Rojer drew close to the giant’s brow, and with relish, reached over and plucked one eye from its socket. Still wet, the ball filled both of Rojer’s palms. The iris had clouded over with a lustrous film which allowed Rojer to witness the reflection of his own satisfaction as he cut the nerve strings and slipped the eyeball into a sack.
“It will indeed.”
Eyes of the Oracle: Sight Out of Time © 2021-2022 kmCarter (Krista M. Carter) all rights reserved. Properly-attributed quotes of less than 200 words (print, digital, etc.) may be used for criticism, reporting, or sharing to social media. Direct Message for media, publication, or collaboration inquiries.
