The crown was too small for his head. He would have to have a larger, more glorious one made. Until then, he wore a wreath of laurels around his skull to signify is kingship. Upon the ground lay the old king, royal vestiges soaked in blood, a dagger in his throat. The people bowed before their new king. After a moment to enjoy their fear and adoration, he summoned servants to carry off the body of the former ruler.
Albinius had often wondered what happened to the disposed kings when a new assassin took the throne. No one ever mentioned that part. All he knew is that the former king would have his name etched upon a wall with the dates of his reign. Thus it had been for two centuries when Albinius slew Nahir for the throne. It would not be long before his question was answered.
While it pained Albinius to slay his father, that was the way of it since long before he was born. His father, Nahir, waited forty years before striking down his father. At that point, old age had all but done the job for him. Albinius was far too impatient for that. He had waited only three years since his father took the throne to claim it himself. He may have waited a few more years, but these barbarians, only days away from his tiny kingdom, pressed his hand. His father would do nothing about them and the people were worried. Albinius did what he felt best for his people. He would now begin making alliances with nearby realms, strengthening his army, building his fortifications, and making as many expansions as he could to his domain.
Let the barbarians come, he thought. I will enslave them and take their lands. I will make myself the greatest king ever! More than just a name on a wall.
Days were spent sending messengers to neighboring realms with offers of mutual protection. Nights were spent determining how to undermine those kingdoms before taking them to expand his own realm. He conscripted an army and trained them with masters from Mu in combat and tactics. He made subtle increases to the taxes to pay for siege machines. Those that questioned why siege weapons were necessary against barbarians with little village defenses were silenced. Albinius could have no one even guess his plans until he knew who he could trust. He wanted to spring the trap with as little warning as possible.
Within a few weeks time, the new king had quadrupled his military and doubled his treasure stores. He would move soon on the barbarians, now just to the northeast of his realm, a few days march. All the surrounding realms were allied to him and ready to join in on his battle.
It was a pleasantly cool spring morning when Albinius rode out the gates of his capital. One thousand and five hundred heavily armored men rode out in tow. Each was armed with iron helms, full plate armor, iron swords, twenty javelins each, and a round iron shield.
Albinius himself wore a full plate of iron. His round shield bore the image of a phoenix rising triumphant. Upon his head was a new crown of gold atop chainmail, with a diamond the size of an eye, masterfully cut and embedded dead center of the crown’s high front. Smiling to himself, Abinius turned to his general, a half-brother of his named Rouche, and whispered.
“We will deal swiftly with these barbarians and then move as planned to the west. Are the siege weapons ready?”
“Aye, brother.” Rouche looked around to make sure no one was close enough to hear. “They are stashed in the woods near Parnia with a guard as you requested.”
“Excellent. They will be the first of our new subjects. After that, I will trust you to take out the Larians to the south while I deal with the affairs of the kingdom.”
“It will be done as you ask, m’ lord.”
Albinius breathed a deep gulp of the air and let out a long sigh of content. He would be the most remembered king of an expanded Alura, his legend spread for generations. Such he told himself with smug satisfaction.
Albinius looked out over the field were the barbarians camped. Still asleep in the wee morning hours in little tents of deer skin, they had no idea what awaited them. He nodded to king Walsh of Parnia and he acknowledged his men were ready. A nod to king Pak of Laria confirmed he too was ready. A loud trumpet blared. The banging of metal resounded as the Aluran army rushed the camps.
Barbarians stumbled out of tents, half-dressed and ill-armed. The first encountered were quickly cut down unaware of what was happening. Albinius laughed as he tore down one after another. Twenty-five hundred armored men in all sliced through the eight hundred barbarians in little time.
Albinius looked on with smug contempt at the burning remains of the camp only minutes after the trumpet had sounded the battle. A messenger told him of some problems on the south side of the encampment with a particularly troublesome barbarian. Albinius cursed him as he rode off to look for himself.
As he arrived at a circle of men from his realm and their neighbors, it was easy to see why the barbarian was so much trouble. He stood two heads taller than most of Albinius’ men. His bronzed skin seemed to pull taut as if it could barely contain the muscle underneath. A javelin had pierced the barbarian’s left shoulder, but the man seemed to take no notice. He growled and snarled, and cut down any man that tried to come near.
Albinius dismounted and pushed through the crowd of his men. As he neared the opening, he saw the barbarian deftly dodge a sword swing from behind him and slice the man down that swung it as he stumbled past. Albinius noted the barbarian’s shoulder-length brown hair, peppered with gray. He moved nimbly, more so than most men half his age could.
Six men swarmed the barbarian. Six men died without landing a blow. Albinius shouted to take him down, alive if possible. Thirteen more men were slain and eight more wounded before the barbarian was finally overwhelmed.
Stripped of clothes and his Atlantean blade, the barbarian was bound in thick chains and an iron ball of fifty pounds was shackled to each of his legs. Albinius looked down at the man from horseback. Even still, he did not need to bend his neck all that much to look the naked barbarian in the eye.
“Who are you, brave barbarian, who has slain so many of my men?”
A smile curled his lips. His back grew straighter and his shoulders broadened further. With pride and a booming voice he responded.
“I am Kiljar! I am the slayer of demons, killer of thousands of men from Latvia to Mu! I am the bane of gods and kings. The far-traveller and the god-slayer.” Kiljar was on a role. His captors were enthralled. “I am death incarnate! The night-stalker! The wyrm-bane! I…am…your…doom.”
Kiljar gleamed from ear to ear. Even with the blood spilling from his shoulder and the bruises on his face and chest from the hundreds of fists that had pummelled him in to submission, his poise and menacing stature still commanded the respect of the men surrounding him.
Albinius struck Kiljar across the face. It had barely budged his neck to the side and Kiljar laughed in contempt.
“Unchain me and try that again.” There was no response. “How stoic you are in the face of a bound man.”
Albinius struck him again with little result. He turned his horse away and drew closer to his half-brother. There was a wordless nod to each other as kings Walsh and Pak approached. Rouche turned to a sergeant and gave a shout. As he did, Albinius sliced Walsh across the neck. Rouche stabbed Pak through the throat. Before their men knew the danger, the Aluran army had cut them all down. Their treachery would be unknown to the people of Parnia and Laria until the Aluran army was bearing down on their cities and villages.
Kiljar took note of this treachery. He also made note that Rouche had not told Albinius that he possessed Kiljar’s Atlantean sword which was now shoved in Rouche’s saddlebag.
Kiljar was sent southwest with a small contingent back to Alura and its capital city. The duplicitous Albinius and Rouche went westward to spring their ambush on Parnia.
They had given Kiljar no food on the four day journey back to Alura and only enough water to keep him alive. He was received by hissing crowds who threw rocks and rotted fruit and, on one occasion, horse dung at him as he was marched nude through the streets. He was finally taken to a prison near the mansion that served as Albinius’ castle. Kiljar only got a brief glimpse before they shoved him through the doors of the prison, but it was enough to see that the mansion was only moderately fortified and lightly guarded.
Kiljar was unchained and thrown into a windowless iron pen with the fifty pound iron balls still shackled to his feet. He was tossed some molding bread and a tin dish of brackish water was laid just inside the door. Having had nothing to eat in days, Kiljar devoured the bread and sipped at the foul-looking water.
The cell was empty except for a tin chamber pot with a crack in it and a small pile of straw. Thick iron bars separated him from an empty cell on one side and a cell with a man he was certain was dead on the other. Across from him was another empty cell, the door left open, with a withered old man in the cell on the left and a child so ratty and caked in filth Kiljar could not tell if it was a boy or girl underneath all that dirt in the cell to the right.
These six cells were the extent of the jail as far as Kiljar could tell. On one end of the cells was solid stone walls. On the other end was the door he had been shoved through, thick oak wood with a series of four metal bolts on the outside to hold it. A guard stood in front of the door, as Kiljar saw through the metal slat left open.
Even though the air outside had been cool, Kiljar began to sweat in here with the door shut. The only fresh air that penetrated was what little came through the slat in the door. Kiljar sat down on the straw bed and began absentmindedly weaving pieces of it together. He tried talking to the old man but the guard outside slammed his hand against the door and yelled for Kiljar to shut his mouth. None of the other inmates looked at him. He went back to absentmindedly weaving straw together.
Before he realized it, Kiljar had fashioned a crude sandal from the straw. With nothing better to do, he silently made another. Then an undergarment to cover his loins, which was cleverly fashioned, but horrendously itchy and quickly removed. The old man softly chuckled at this, low enough that the guard took no notice.
Having passed only two hours in this fashion, Kiljar finally decided to assess the situation he was in. He tested the bars of his cage. Only one did he find loose enough to move and even if he could squeeze through the bars, he would only find himself in another locked cell. The stone wall behind him was sturdy; not a single brick was loose. He gauged their thickness at around one and a half to two feet.
The guard changed without even glancing into the cells. Kiljar sat down on the straw pile and began looking at his fetters. He eyed each length of chain and the iron ball attached to each. He ran his hands slowly down the links. He found one poorly linked on his left foot. It was not wide enough to slip the next link, but Kiljar pulled and worked the link until it was loose enough to slip free.
Kiljar study the other fetter. He could not find a weakened link. With the molded bread being his only sustenance in four days, he was a bit weak. Nevertheless, he pulled with all his might and got a small break in one of the links. He took a minute break, shook his arms out, and went at it again. He pulled until the link finally popped off with a small clink. The guard took no notice. The child was fast a sleep and the dead guy was still dead. The old man gave a look of, “Good job. Now what will you do.”
Kiljar pondered only for a second. He stood and stretched. He picked up one of the fetters by the chain, careful not to make too much noise. He gave the guard a look. Inattentive and oblivious.
Kiljar swung the ball and chain over his head once and slammed it into the wall. A chunk gave way and Kiljar swung again before the guard could even open the door. This one knocked a large enough hole for Kiljar to push through.
The guard panicked and rushed around the side to be met by Kiljar’s forearm across his throat. The barbarian quickly looped his arm around the guard, crushing his windpipe. A second latter the man was dead.
The guard was armed with only a cudgel. Kiljar took it and the man’s leather tunic and hurriedly girded himself with it. Many citizens had taken note and began yelling for guards and pelting Kiljar with rocks. The son of Atlantis took no notice but plowed his way through the crowd. He hurt none of the citizenry but clubbed any guard that stepped in the way, upgrading to an iron sword and buckler as he ran. With this he made easy work of the guards at the city gate and fled the city.
Kiljar was not followed, to his surprise. The guards merely collected their dead and carried them off beyond where Kiljar could see. He watched and waited. No one pursued.
Kiljar took to a hill a good distance from the city for a better vantage point. Within the city, the chaos had abated. Extra guards were put on the gate.
Kiljar slowly retreated down the side of the hill out of view of the city. There were few good hiding places to be found should they change their minds about pursuit.
Kiljar found a high patch of grass and nestled himself into the middle of it. He napped for an hour in the sun. There was the possibility that they would come for him. But a rested barbarian would be a greater threat.
He woke immediately and moderately refreshed when the hour ended. He sat up and stretched. His sinews creaked as they expanded. A horse’s hooves beat on the road nearby. Kiljar stood and risked a quick glance over the grass. It was a messenger of Alura by the garb. Kiljar watched as he rode full speed through the gate.
Fifteen minutes later, the messenger came back out at a hard run on his horse. Kiljar sprang from the grass as the messenger passed and tackled him from the horse. Both men tumbled across the ground and Kiljar quickly jumped back to his feet. The messenger was dead with a broken neck from the fall from the horse. Kiljar picked up the message and read it quickly. It was addressed from Albinius to Roche.
So Albinius has already returned, thought Kiljar.
He read the note.
Brother,
Your failure to capture Laria on your own is disappointing. I had assumed you would be a decent enough tactician to take the city on your own. Either capture it within the week or you will be punished for your failure. You will receive no further help having all the resources you need.
KING Rouche
Kiljar noted the emphasis Rouche placed on his title. Rouche would not receive the message. Knowing how poorly guarded the palace was and how easily Rouche could be overthrown, Kiljar would make easy work of this cocky king.
At nightfall, Kiljar put his thief skills to use. He came around the wall and noted the guards. One was asleep standing. The other was staring at a wooden made puzzle box, trying to figure out how to open it.
In the span of two heartbeats, the awake guard was dead and on the ground. Kiljar reached over and grabbed the sleeping one by the mouth and stabbed him in one swift move.
Silently, Kiljar stalked the streets. Passing under the eaves of houses, he managed to cling to the shadows. Stealthily, he made his was to the mansion where Albinius ruled. He took a quick sprint at the wall, planted his feet on it quickly and ran two steps before leaping and catching the top of the wall. He pulled himself over unobserved, dropped to the other side, and rolled. Silently he moved towards the building. He found a stone drainpipe. He climbed up it to the second floor and pushed on a window. It opened easily.
How stupid is this man, Kiljar thought.
The room was empty. He moved quietly to the door. Easing it open, he found the hall well lit, but empty. He checked multiple hall doors finding sleeping servants, empty rooms, Albinius’ empty bedroom, and some storage closets.
He moved down a staircase to the first floor. A great door was open to a throne room. On the dias was Albinius. Four people were in a line before him, addressing their complaints to him. There was a guard with a halberd on either side of the king. Otherwise, the room was empty.
Kiljar realized that all his stealth had been pointless. He could have set the whole town ablaze and no one would have been able to stop him.
He strolled into the throne room, head high and proud. It took a moment for Albinius to see him and a half of one to realize who this man was.
“Guards! Kill that man now!”
The two guards leapt from the dias and charged him. He easily dodged and ducked their long weapons and sliced each down in seconds. Albinius rose and drew his sword.
“Found the courage to face me unbound, have you?” Kiljar smiled at his foe. “Come with it then!”
Albinius thrusted his blade forward a Kiljar deflected it. They circled each other, blades clashing randomly, testing each other’s defenses. Both men were surprised at the other’s skill. Kiljar was the first to tire of the dance. His barbarian bloodlust rising in his veins, he began to hammer Albinius with strike after strike. Albinius blocked but was kept on the defensive. He could not find a striking opportunity through Kiljar’s rapid blows. Eventually, he was cornered and helpless. Albinius could block no more. He took a chance to strike but fell wide, leaving himself open. Kiljar took the opportunity and slammed his sword home in Albinius’ chest.
One of the people seeking audience called out for the guards. Kiljar was astonished when the walked past him and picked up Albinius’ body and hauled it away. One of them placed the crown on Kiljar’s head.
“We await your orders, m’ lord.”
Kiljar stared, momentarily dumbfounded. When he realized what they were saying to him, he straightened upright, sheathed his blade, and called for food and ale.
“And send word to Rouche to withdraw his forces home. And to return my sword!”
A few days later, Kiljar sat listening the two hundred and tenth complaint of the day. It was the forty-somethingth farmer complaining about the lack of rain, as if Kiljar was a weather god.
Kiljar made his sympathetic remarks to the man and sent him on his way. He called a retainer to him and told him to inform any more farmers complaining about the weather to go home. He sent another retainer to gather men and begin digging trenches from rivers, lakes and ponds to redirect some of the water through the fields
Rouche barged through the doors and climbed the dias. He knelt and offered Kiljar his Atlantean blade. Kiljar received it and motioned Rouche to stand.
“I apologize but I must speak with Rouche privately. Please excuse me,” Kiljar told those waiting for audience.
Without awaiting reply, Kiljar took Rouche to a private side room. He closed the door quietly.
“You wish to be king, do you not?”
Rouche nodded. “I do indeed. Though I doubt I can best your skill in combat.”
“As do I,” Kiljar said frankly. “But I do not wish to be king, nor spend the remainder of my years fighting to hold the throne.”
“Understandable. What is your proposal?”
“Easy. I proclaim you the new king. Have a ceremony, the whole big rigmarole, put the crown on tour head, and leave.”
“No one has ever relinquished their kingship here in such fashion.”
“Well, these aren’t my people. All I ask is that you keep the few changes I have made, including not raiding Laria, and I will be out of your hair.”
Rouche was conniving, brutal, power hungry, but he was a man of his word. He extended his forearm. Kiljar accepted it firmly.
“You have a deal, Kiljar.”
The coronation was grandiose. Rouche was crowned, he commended Kiljar for his prowess and good judgment for the few days he was king. With that, and a few hundred gold coins for never returning again, Kiljar was on his way.
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