The Wealth of Kings (3 page)

As the army crossed through to the other side of the market, the warriors turned off to the north, eager to corral their cavedogs and unburden themselves. Tonight the wounded would be cared for by physicians and healers. Those without injury would rest. The fallen would be placed in a cool chamber and prepared for their final rites. Tomorrow the mountain would halt its production. None of the miners would lift their tools. The craftsmen would abandon their work benches. All would come together to honor the fallen and begin the funeral rites. As busy as the mountain ever was, the dwarves could never forget to honor their kin who had sacrificed their lives.

Sylus turned and watched the army ride by him, already thinking about the morrow’s activities and what he would say during the services for the dead. He swung a stiff leg over his cavedog and slid off as the lizard bent slightly to ease his dismount. The cavedog then turned and followed the others.

The king made his way to a small building at the base of a grand set of stairs. Inside, a trio of body servants helped him remove his armor. He then left the building and ascended the stairs, winding his way up the spiraling steps cut right into the stone of the eastern wall. The way was long, and would be tiring to all but the dwarf folk, who were built for climbing up and down long tunnels in the mountain. The staircase was twenty feet wide, adorned with stone engravings and murals along either wall. Some depicted historical events, battles, coronations, deaths and births of kings. Others were ornamental designs created by the greatest of dwarven masters. The stairs themselves were hewn right out of the black mountain stone, polished to a high sheen and inlaid with gold that crisscrossed diagonally and glittered under foot as the great chandeliers above burned bright and cast their light down.

Thirty minutes passed before Sylus reached the top landing in front of the throne room. The landing itself was forty feet long and flanked with four sets of armor on display atop pedestals of solid gold. Each pedestal had the name of a previous king carved into it. Those kings were Sylus’ father, grandfather, great grandfather, and great-great grandfather. Sylus went to his father’s set of armor and gently brushed the left pauldron. He then looked a few feet beyond it and saw the empty pedestal that would one day hold his armor.

Sylus concealed the condescending grin that tried to worm its way across his mouth as an idea struck him suddenly. Would they honor Sylus’ armor even if it was dented and scarred from his battles with orcs, or would they recreate armor that would glorify his victories but omit the memory of the injuries and wounds that had come along with the battles?

Year 3,711 Age of Demigods, Late Spring.

2
nd
year of the reign of Aldehenkaru’hktanah Sit’marihu, 13
th
King of Roegudok Hall.

Al stood on the landing atop the spiral staircase leading up from the barren market in the main hall. His tired eyes were fixed upon a highly polished set of armor standing upon the fifth pedestal. The golden plaque upon the pedestal read, “King Sylus Magdinium, fifth king of Roegudok Hall.” Al admired the black metal the armor was made from. A silver and gold inlay was set in a weaving pattern at each joint and edge, and a mighty dragon was embossed over the chest. The gauntlets had fierce spikes protruding from the knuckles, and a large ruby was set into the back of each hand. The pauldrons protruded out in a very pronounced way, almost mimicking wings as they tapered down into sharp blades that reminded Al somewhat of the dragon-slayer armor he had seen Master Lepkin wear in recent weeks. In Al’s estimation, all of the armor paled in comparison to the mighty hammer fastened to the wall above the pedestal though.

“The great weapon, Murskain,” Al whispered reverently. “The hammer by which King Sylus forged the greatest and most prosperous generation of dwarves to ever grace Roegudok Hall.” Al smiled and nodded respectfully to the hammer, as if it still housed a piece of Sylus’ soul. “Would that I knew your secret to wealth now,” Al said as his shoulders slumped and he turned his gaze to the floor. “The tables in the market are bare, save for a few trinkets left over from before the war with Tu’luh. We have no ore, no stores of weapons or armor. My brother squandered all of the wealth left by our father. Whatever remained was consumed by the war.”

Al sighed and stretched a hand out to the breastplate before him. “That is to say nothing of the loss of kin we have suffered.” Al looked to the helmet, half expecting Sylus to appear and rebuke him. Still, despite his grief, he had known the risk. There had been no other way to stop Tu’luh the Red. The dragon was far beyond reason, and the army he led would have ravaged the entire Middle Kingdom.

The dwarf king sighed once more and patted the breastplate as he turned and walked toward the golden double doors that separated the stairs from the throne room. Diamonds, emeralds, and sapphires sparkled and shimmered in an arch around the doorway as Al approached. Normally, there would have been a pair of guards before the doors, but Al had sent them away upon returning to Roegudok Hall a few days before so they could help with the burial rites.

When he left Roegudok Hall sixty years ago, he never would have guessed that he would have become king, and then led the dwarven army to fight off an orc invasion from the south after Ten Forts was conquered. Though, even that particular series of battles paled in comparison to the height of the war when he led the full might of the dwarven army to Fort Drake in an attempt to stop Tu’luh the Red, one of the nastiest dragons to darken the skies of Terramyr, and cull the zombie army that the dragon commanded.

Al stopped and leaned into the open doorway as the memories came flooding back to him. So many had been lost. Nagar’s Blight had threatened the entire Middle Kingdom, but even in defeating it, Al had lost nearly each and every dwarf soldier that had gone on the campaign with him. Those who had not been slain, had been captured by magic, and then killed when the magic of Nagar’s Blight was destroyed once and for all.

There were good memories too, though. He thought of his most unlikely of friends, a young teenage boy named Erik who had become the Champion of Truth. There was also Master Lepkin, and his wife Lady Dimwater. Even with how many friends and kin were slain, Al knew that he and his companions had fought on the right side of the war. What they did, they did to protect their freedom and their homelands.

His only true regret was the fact that he had not stuck around Fort Drake long enough to meet with Hiasyntar’Kulai, the Father of the Ancients. Seeing the massive, golden-scaled dragon land within the Middle Kingdom once more was something akin to a miracle for Al. It had been centuries since the Ancients had been seen in the Middle Kingdom.

Al sighed and pushed off from the doorway and brought his thoughts back to the mountain and the issues at hand. He had a kingdom to rebuild, and he had to do so during a time of great grief and loss for his people.

Two days after returning, Al had stood at the pulpit, addressing the whole of the dwarven folk in Roegudok Hall and praising the fallen warriors. The tradition was sacred, heralding all the way back to the first king, Persais Magdinium. Al turned his thoughts away from the funeral rites. It was not something he could think about without feeling the sadness that accompanied such loss. He pushed on to the throne room, steering his mind to topics of commerce and trade.

When he spied a group of dwarves seated at the long, wooden table in the center of the hall, he sighed. He had hoped that he would have at least a few hours of privacy before the others would come to him. He hated council meetings almost as much as he disliked the funeral rites. Of course, he didn’t mean to compare the two events, as one was so obviously worse than the other, but he couldn’t help it. Every time he saw the council waiting for him, it was almost as if he was preparing to give his own funeral rites.

It wasn’t purely the weight and responsibility of being king that pulled his soul down, though that was certainly part of it. It was the lack of belonging he felt since returning home. Home. He wasn’t even sure he felt that it
was
his home. He had left Roegudok Hall seventy years ago, before his father had passed away. Though he had been the first born, Al had always rejected his father’s intent to crown him king one day. The smithing hammer that hung from Al’s belt even now had been the cause of a great rift between him and his father. A prince who would prefer a forge to a throne. Al had been the cause of much of his father’s worry, but Threnton had been there to step into Al’s position. In all the years since Al had left Roegudok Hall, he had only returned for his father’s funeral.

Al looked to the table, seeing the new wood that held it together now and sighed. There had been one other time when Al had returned. He had come to ask his brother for the golden scale given to the first king by the Ancients. Threnton had not only refused, but had Al thrown into a pit and left him to die. The rebuilt table was a reminder of the battle that had occurred in this very room. Al had escaped from the pit, challenged his brother for the throne, and he had won.

Had he known the extent to which Threnton would have depleted Roegudok Hall, he might never have left in the first place, or at least, that is what he would like to think would have happened.

“Sire, we have given you the first week to recuperate, as you asked, but now we must convene. There is much to discuss,” Alferug said.

Al forced a smile and moved to sit on the bench next to Alferug, his advisor in the ways of the Ancients, and a trusted steward who had also served Al’s father. Al’s choice of seat was met by four disapproving frowns. Al sighed and looked to the high-backed chair at the head of the table.

Dvek, a silver-haired dwarf with bushy brows and narrow-set, dark eyes, was the first to break the uneasy silence. “Perhaps, you should take your seat at the head of the table,” Dvek suggested with a slight deferential nod.

Al grunted and slapped the table as he rose back to his feet. He shuffled away from the bench and moved around to sit in the high-backed chair, scooting it clumsily across the stone floor toward the table. “Thank you for meeting me here,” Al said. “I know that protocol dictates we should hold council in the council chamber, but inasmuch as we are effectively reorganizing the court, I thought it fitting that we meet in the throne room.”

Al looked up and saw that the painting of his father was hung over the entrance, next to a portrait of Sylus. From both the table, and the throne, Al would be in clear view of the two kings he revered most. He had hoped that the paintings would give him inspiration. However, as he sat at the roughly repaired table in the middle of the throne room now, he couldn’t help but feel the weight of their gaze in more of a scrutinizing light.

“Yes, I believe the symbolic nature of the choice is fitting,” Alferug said quickly. “I also appreciate that the repaired table we find ourselves at is the same one destroyed by the fight with your brother, Threnton. It gives a sense of duty, but also shows the hope of renewal.”

If Dvek or the other two dwarves present agreed with Alferug, they didn’t show it. Dvek merely grunted, and the other two were silent.

Alferug cleared his throat and turned to matters at hand. “My king, we have much to discuss, but we propose to settle the matter of who will fill the vacancy left by Faengoril the Bull first.”

Al nodded. He glanced at Dvek, who was quietly looking down at the table, and then looked to the other two dwarves. Captain Benbo was a stout dwarf, fiery red hair worked neatly into a single plait fastened with a silver band at the bottom. His arms were large, even by dwarf standards. However, unlike most dwarves, he was rumored to be unable to grow a full beard. At least, that was what others said when discussing the single braid coming down from Benbo’s chin that was almost identical to his plaited hair. Facial hair notwithstanding, Benbo was very much a dwarf in all the right ways. Al had heard Faengoril praise Benbo on several occasions as well, which carried significant weight.

Opposite Benbo sat a stoic dwarf with jet black hair that frizzed out in all directions, somewhat resembling a lion’s mane. A heavy purple scar ran from left eyebrow to the tip of this dwarf’s nose, and was the cause for the dead, white eye. Captain Kijik had more than made up for his lost eye, though. He was as tough as they came, and, unlike Benbo, he sported a full, thick beard that nearly passed his belly button.

These were the only two dwarves recommended for the position of Minister of Defense.

Al cleared his throat and all eyes fell upon him. “Captain Kijik, I have heard great things about your service in the north with the Lievonian Order. From what I have been told, you slew a great number of Tarthuns and fought in a way that would make any dwarf proud to call you brother. Truly, a hero of such renown and ability is a rarity.”

Dvek and Alferug rapped their knuckles on the table, signifying their agreement with Al’s assessment. Captain Kijik nodded his appreciation, but remained silent.

Al then turned to Captain Benbo. “You were with Faengoril for his last battle.” Al paused and took in a breath. Since he had heard of Faengoril’s heroic sacrifice, he had a hard time putting the image of the warrior being buried alive out of his mind. “What Faengoril did brought about the destruction of many Tarthuns who would have otherwise attacked the Lievonian Order from behind. I have the utmost respect for Faengoril the Bull. He knew not only strategy, but also how to make the tough command decisions. Not only that, but he never shied away from danger. I personally fought beside him at Valtuu Temple when we found Tu’luh the Red there. He was a magnificent warrior, and he was an excellent advisor.” Al shook his head and studied Benbo’s eyes.

“I bring this to your attention, because Faengoril praised you, Captain Benbo. He told me how he felt about you. That was why he assigned you to his army when we set out from Roegudok Hall after the last council I held here. Truth be told, the decision is an easy one in that Faengoril already made a recommendation for his replacement.”

“He did?” Alferug cut in. “I was not aware of that.”

Al nodded. “It was something between me and him,” Al explained. “I have his note here.” Al pulled a folded letter from his pocket and set it on the table. Captains Kijik and Benbo both turned to stare at the folded letter. Al slid his fingers under the fold and opened it to reveal a short letter. “He asked me to make Benbo the next Minister of Defense in the event of his death,” Al said.

Captain Kijik did his best to hide it, but the disappointment flashed across his face and his shoulders dropped just a hair for half a second before he rose to his feet and saluted Benbo.

“A wise choice,” Kijik said. He then turned to Al. “If that is all, sire, I shall return to my station.”

Al nodded. “That would be well,” he said. Kijik turned to leave, but Al held up a hand. “Do you know the way?” Al asked.

Kijik frowned. “Of course, sire.”

Al waved his hand and shook his head. “No, I mean, do you know your way to the Home Guard offices?”

“Sire?” Captain Kijik asked.

Al pointed to Benbo. “This is my new minister of defense. He will work on rebuilding our army. However, I have been thinking that the Home Guard needs a revitalization as well. I am appointing you as the General and Commanding Officer of the Home Guard. I want you to take the Home Guard, and make each one of its members as fierce and fearsome as you were on that battlefield in the north.”

Kijik smiled and nodded. “Yes, my king.”

“What of General Grubo?” Alferug asked.

Al nodded knowingly. “Grubo is retiring from the Home Guard,” Al said.

“I didn’t hear of this either,” Alferug said with a frown.

“Both of his sons died at Fort Drake,” Al explained. “He approached me after the funeral rites and asked to be released.”

Alferug nodded understandingly.

“General Kijik, you may go. If you have any questions as to your duties, you will find Grubo’s lieutenants eager to help acquaint you with your new responsibilities.”