The Weight of Honor (7 page)

Duncan, flanked by his men, marched through the capital of Andros, behind him the footsteps of thousands of his soldiers, victorious, triumphant, their armor clanging as they paraded through this liberated city. Everywhere they went, they were met by the triumphant cheers of citizens, men and women, old and young, all dressed in the fancy garments of the capital, all rushing forward on the cobblestone streets and throwing flowers and delicacies his way. Everyone proudly waved the banners of Escalon. Duncan felt triumphant to see the colors of his homeland waving again, to see all these people, just the day before so oppressed, now so jubilant, so free. It was an image he would never forget, an image that made all of it worth it.

As the early morning sun broke over the capital, Duncan felt as if he were marching into a dream. Here was a place he had been sure he would never step foot in again, not while he was alive, and certainly not under these conditions. Andros, the capital. The crown jewel of Escalon, seat of kings for thousands of years, now in his control. The Pandesian garrisons had fallen. His men controlled the gates; they controlled the roads; they controlled the streets. It was more than he could have ever hoped for.

But days ago, he marveled, he was still in Volis, all of Escalon still under the iron thumb of Pandesia. Now, all of northwestern Escalon stood free and its very capital, its heart and soul, was free from Pandesian rule. Of course, Duncan realized, they had achieved this victory solely through speed and surprise. It was a brilliant victory, but also a potentially transient one; once word reached the Pandesian Empire, they would come for him—and not with a few garrisons, but with the might of the world. The world would fill with the stampede of elephants, the sky would fill with arrows, the sea would be covered in ships. But that was no reason to turn his back on doing what was just, on doing what was demanded of a warrior. For now, at least, they had held their own; for now, at least, they were free.

Duncan heard a crash and he turned to see an immense marble statue of His Glorious Ra, supreme ruler of Pandesia, toppled, yanked down with ropes by scores of citizens. It smashed into a thousand pieces as it hit the ground, and men cheered, stomping on its shards. More citizens rushed forward and yanked at the huge blue and yellow banners of Pandesia, tearing them from walls, buildings, steeples.

Duncan could not help but smile, taking in the adulation, the sense of pride these people had at gaining their freedom back, a feeling he understood all too well. He looked over at Kavos and Bramthos, Anvin and Arthfael and Seavig and all their men, and he saw them beaming too, exultant, reveling on this day that would be written into the history books. It was a memory they would all take with them for the rest of their lives.

They all marched through the capital, passing squares and courtyards, turning down streets that Duncan knew so well from all the years he had spent here. They rounded a bend, and Duncan looked up and his heart quickened to see the capitol building of Andros, its golden dome shining in the sun, its huge arched golden doors as imposing as ever, its white marble façade shining, engraved, as he remembered it, with the ancient writings of Escalon philosophers. It was one of the few buildings Pandesia had not touched, and Duncan felt a sense of pride at seeing it.

Yet he also felt a pit in his stomach; he knew that waiting for him inside would be the nobles, the politicians, the serving council of Escalon, the men of politics, of schemes, men he did not understand. They were not soldiers, not warlords, but men of wealth and power and influence which had been inherited from their ancestors. They were men who did not deserve to wield power, and yet men who, somehow, still held an iron grip on Escalon.

Worst of all, Tarnis himself would certainly be with them.

Duncan braced himself and took a deep breath as he ascended the hundred marble steps, his men beside him as the great doors were opened for him by the King’s Guard. He took a deep breath, knowing he should feel exultant, yet knowing he was entering a den of snakes, a place where honor gave way to compromise and treachery. He would prefer a battle against all of Pandesia rather than an hour spent meeting with these men, men of shifting compromise, men who stood for nothing, who were so lost in lies that they did not even understand themselves.

The King’s Guard, wearing the bright red armor Duncan had not seen in years, with their pointed helmets and ceremonial halberds, opened the doors wide and looked back at Duncan with respect. These, at least, were true warriors. They were an ancient force, loyal only to the serving King of Escalon. They were the only force of soldiers left standing here, ready to serve whatever king ruled, a vestige of what once was. Duncan recalled his vow to Kavos, thought of being King, and he felt a pit in his stomach. It was the last thing he wanted.

Duncan led his men through the doors and into the sacred corridors of the capitol building, in awe, as he always was, at its vast soaring ceilings, etched with the symbols of Escalon’s clans, its white and blue marble floors, engraved with a huge dragon, a lion in its mouth. Being in here brought it all back. No matter how many times he entered, he was always humbled by this place.

His men’s marching echoed in the vast halls, and as Duncan went, heading for the Council Chamber, he felt, as he always had, that this place was like a tomb, a gilded tomb where politicians and nobles could congratulate themselves on hatching plans that kept them in power. He had tried to spend as little time here as possible when he had resided in the capital, and now he wished to spend even less.

“Remember your vow.”

Duncan turned to see Kavos staring back, intensity shining in his dark eyes, beneath his dark beard, Bramthos beside him. It was the face of a true warrior, a warrior to whom he owed a great debt.

Duncan’s stomach clenched at his words. It was a vow he had made that haunted him. A vow to assume the kingship. To oust his old friend. Politics was the last thing he craved; he yearned only for freedom and an open battlefield.

Yet he had made a vow, and he knew he would have to honor that vow. As he approached the iron doors, he knew that what came next would not be pleasant, yet it would have to be done. After all, who in that room of politicians would want to hand him power, acknowledge him as King, even if he had been the one who had won it for them?

They passed through an open arch and another contingent of King’s Guards stepped aside, revealing twin doors of bronze. The Council Doors, ancient things that had lasted for too many kings. They opened them wide and stepped aside, and Duncan found himself entering the Council Chamber.

Shaped in a circle a hundred feet across, the Council Chamber had in its center a circular table of black marble, and around this there sat and stood a huge crowd of nobles, in chaos. Duncan could immediately feel the tension in the air, the sound of agitated men arguing, pacing the floor, this room more packed than he’d ever seen it. Usually inside there sat an orderly group of a dozen nobles, sitting about, presided over by the old King. Now the room sat packed with a hundred men, all dressed in their fancy garb. Duncan would expect the mood to be jubilant here, after his victory—but not with these men. They were professional malcontents.

In their center stood Tarnis, and as Duncan and his men entered, they all stopped bickering and fell silent. All heads turned, stunned looks on their faces, looks of surprise and awe and respect—and especially of fear, fear of the change that was about to happen.

Duncan marched into the center with his commanders, while he had the rest of his dozens of men take up positions around the periphery of the room, standing guard silently all around the outskirts. It was the show of force that Duncan wanted. If these men resisted him, plotted to keep themselves in power, Duncan wanted to remind them who had freed the capital, who had defeated Pandesia. He saw the nobles glance nervously at his soldiers, then back to him, as he approached. Professional politicians to the end, they showed no reaction.

Tarnis, the most professional of them all, turned to Duncan and broke into a quick, forced smile. He reached out his arms and began to approach.

“Duncan!” he called out warmly, as if to embrace a long lost brother.

Tarnis, in his sixties, with well-tanned skin, fine lines, and soft silky gray hair that fell to his chin, had always had a pampered, manicured look to him; of course he would, as he had lived a life of pomp and luxury his entire life. His face also bore a look of wisdom—yet Duncan knew that look was just a facade. He was a fine actor, the finest of them all, and he knew how to project wisdom. That, indeed, was what had enabled him to rise to power. From all their years together, Duncan knew he was a master of appearing to feel one way—and acting another.

Tarnis stepped forward and embraced Duncan, and Duncan coldly embraced him back, still unsure how to feel about him. He still felt stung, supremely disappointed by this man whom he had once respected as a father. After all, this was the man who had surrendered the land. It was insulting for Duncan to see him here, in this hall of power, after Duncan’s victory, in which he no longer deserved to be. And by the way all the nobles still looked to him, Duncan could sense that Tarnis assumed he still was king. It was, remarkably, as if nothing had changed.

“I thought to never lay eyes upon you again,” Tarnis added. “Especially not under circumstances like these.”

Duncan stared back, unable to get himself to muster a smile. He had always been honest with his emotions, and he could not pretend to feel warmth for the man.

“How could you have done this?” shouted out an angry voice.

Duncan turned and looked across the table to see Bant, the warlord of Baris, southern neighbor to the capital, staring back angrily at him. Bant was known to be a difficult man, a cantankerous man, as were all the people of Baris, living as they did down in the canyon, a hard, drab people. His people were not to be trusted.

“Do what exactly?” Duncan called back, indignant. “Liberated you?”

“
Liberated
us!?” he sneered. “You started a war we cannot win!”

“Now we lie at the mercy of Pandesia!” called out a voice.

Duncan turned to see a noble standing, staring back angrily at him.

“All of us will now be slaughtered, all because of your impetuous actions!” he called.

“And all this without our authority!” shouted out another noble, a man Duncan did not recognize, wearing the colors of the northwest.

“You will surrender at once!” called Bant. “You will approach the Pandesian lords, you will lay down your arms, and you will beg their forgiveness on behalf of us all.”

Duncan fumed at these cowards’ words.

“You all disgust me,” Duncan replied, enunciating each word. “I am ashamed that I fought for your freedom.”

A heavy silence filled the room, none daring to respond.

“If you do not surrender at once,” Bant finally called out, “then we shall do it for you. We shall not die for your recklessness.”

Kavos stepped forward and drew his sword, the sound reverberating in the room, heightening the tension, Bramthos standing close beside him.

“No one is surrendering,” he said, his voice cold and hard. “Come close, and the only thing you will surrender to is the tip of my sword.”

The tension in the room reached a fever pitch, both sides in a tense standoff, until finally Tarnis, the old King, stepped forward and laid his hand gently on Kavos’s blade. He smiled, the smile of a professional politician.

“There is no need for division here,” he said, his voice soft, reassuring. “We are all men of Escalon, all men who would fight and die for the same cause. We all desire freedom. Freedom for ourselves, for our families, for our cities.”

Slowly, Kavos lowered his sword, yet he still stared coldly across the table at Bant.

Tarnis sighed.

“Duncan,” Tarnis said, “you have always been a faithful soldier and a true friend. I understand your desire for freedom; we all share it ourselves. But sometimes brute force is not the way. After all, consider your actions. You have liberated the northeast, and even managed to win the capital, for now at least. For that I commend you. We
all
commend you,” he said, turning to the room with a wave of his hand, as if speaking for all of them. He turned back to Duncan and rested his eyes upon his. “And yet you have also now left us vulnerable to attack. An attack we cannot possibly fend off. Not you, not even with all your men, and not all of Escalon.”

“Freedom has a price,” Duncan replied. “Yes, some men shall die. But we
will
be free. We shall kill all remaining Pandesians before they have a chance to regroup, and within a fortnight, all of Escalon will be ours.”

“And even if?” Tarnis countered. “Even if you manage to rid our land of them before they rally? Reason with me. Will they not just invade through the open Southern Gate?”

Duncan nodded to Anvin, who nodded back.

“My men prepare even now to ride for the south and secure the gate.”

The politicians grumbled with surprise, and he could see the surprise in Tarnis’s eyes, too.

“And even if they secure it? Will Pandesia not storm the Southern Gate with a million men? And even if they lose those million men, can they not replace them with a million more?”

“With the gate in our hands, no force can take it,” Duncan replied.