[Fordim Hedgethistle]

The rider achieved the Palace only to find it in uproar. Servants and courtiers alike were streaming from the building, braving even the fury of Rae, to spill forth their news upon the City. It came to him in snatches, fragmentary words that flew by him in the howling rain like the cries of nightmare. The Queen was dead, murdered in her own chambers by an invisible terror that none could find. The King had ordered that the Palace be searched and that the City itself be sealed. Even as the rider handed the reins of his shattered mount to a trembling servant, the stables were emptying as messengers were dispatched to all corners of Kanak. The Port was to be closed, the great gates shut. The nobles with estates in the countryside raced to get out of the city before all escape was denied them, but the messengers of the Court rode like men possessed, and few would be able to return to their beds this night. The message of the outrage spread through the city like flame, leaping from rooftop to rooftop almost without the benefit of tongues to give it voice, and as the rain intensified in its fury, the City of Kanak gathered itself beneath the funereal pall of the clouds and awaited the hammerstroke of doom.

The rider staggered into the great hall, directed there by the guards who recognised immediately the token that he bore. With a glance he took in the full horror that had come over his world. The Queen was being taken from the room upon a bier by the women who would tend her this night, while the King sat upon his divan looking at no-one and saying nothing. The Chamberlain was stooped before Khamul, as though awaiting orders that might never come. Few others remained, for a mad panic had seemed to grip the Court and having no other direction, the people fled back to their homes like frightened animals. The rider knew his duty, however, and he strode toward the dais, his left hand holding aloft the broken sword that was his token, and in his right hand he clutched a filthy canvas bag in which something of rough shape dangled like a grotesque fruit.

The King’s eyes took in the sight of the shattered weapon that the messenger bore. He looked at the rider’s mud- and blood-spattered raiment and he knew that this day’s feast of horrors had not yet come to an end. The rider fell to his knees at the foot of the dais and laid the sword upon the lowest step. At the same time, he set the bag with its contents upon the floor next to him, and those who saw the motion noted how he seemed to avoid contact with it as much as he could. “Hail Khamul!” the rider croaked through a throat made raw with the dust and toil of many hard miles ridden at great speed. “I am Barak, son of Arghal, third arant of the Viper battalion.”

The King’s own voice was raw and naked as he made the customary reply. “Greetings Barak, son of Arghal. What news from the Vipers?”

“None, my King, for the dead send no news.” The young man, for young he was, his beard was but little more than a long stubble upon his chin, faltered in his message.

“The dead?” the King echoed, but this time with more animation. “He who bears the broken sword should not speak in riddles. What has happened to the Vipers?”

“They are destroyed, Khamul. Only myself and three others remain, and they were too sorely wounded to make the journey with me to speak of our doom. I brought them as far as the town of Carthan and left them there with the women.” The court fell silent. An entire battalion? The thought swept through everyone there and all eyes turned to the King.

Faroz sat up straight, and his eyes fired with rage. “You lie!” he cried in despair.

“No,” the young man’s voice cracked and tears began to mingle with the rainwater that streaked his face. “I do not, Majesty. We were attacked by a horde of…of monsters! They were many, and they fought like…like nothing I’ve ever seen! Animals show more care for their well being. But these creatures came at us again and again with such reckless hate. We slew them in their hundreds but still they came, seeming only to become angered by their losses to greater fury. They killed everyone, majesty, I alone and my companions escaped to warn you of these demons!”

The King rose up and strode down from his seat to strike the rider across the face. The sound of the blow echoed through the chamber like a thunderclap. The young man’s eyes grew wide with terror. “Command yourself!” the King said sternly. “You speak of demons and monsters, but I know the truth. Your battalion was waylaid by nomads of the desert and you fled in terror for your lives.”

“No, my King!” the rider cried. “Behold the truth of my tale!” he snatched up the bag and opened it, but before he could draw forth its contents the material slipped from his grasp and fell to the floor and its terrible cargo spilled forth. A bloody mass rolled a few feet and then stopped against the lowest step of the dais, right by the King’s foot. It was a head, but the face upon that head was certainly not human. Glaring yellow eyes and sharpened fangs leered up at those who looked at it. Even dead and wretched as it was, the cruelty and malice that had driven it in life was evident in its features. The Court recoiled in terror at the sight.

Faroz kneeled to look more closely at the creature. He spoke softly to Barak. “You have not told us all that you saw yet.”

“No,” he replied. “These beasts were not alone, Khamul. There were Men there with them. Men who did not fight, but who drove the monsters on, lashing them and screaming at them to fight, though such efforts hardly seemed necessary…”

“These men,” Faroz said, “you recognised them?”

“Yes, Khamul. They were Alanzian soldiers.”

There was a deep and resonant silence in the great hall as the King and his people took this in. The rain poured on in the courtyard ceaselessly and the clouds rolled overhead. When the King spoke, his words, though quiet, carried to all corners of the room. “Jarult, summon my children, they must be told of their mother’s death. Send also for the High Priest and Priestess for they must prepare my wife’s funeral. The entire city shall observe the Mourning Watch this night: see to it that all homes burn a censor of incense to her memory, and order that all women do lamentation for their departed Mother.” The Chamberlain bowed and began to go, but the King spoke one more command to him. “Call also for my General, and all nobles of the first rank. We shall prepare a Council for War.”