Tokus Numas (4 page)

“What’s wrong?” Dia said, coming up to Petro.

Petro jumped at the sound of her voice.

Silda immediately came up on the other side.

Petro shifted his gaze away from both of them, looking out into the field. “I was just wondering what it might be like at Tokus Numas,” he said.

“We’ll miss you,” Silda said. She took his arm and held it. “It’s all right. I know it’s hard to leave. And Petro, so you understand, we don’t want you to go.”

Petro gave a half smile and then looked back out into the open field. He felt alone.

Dia poked Petro in the side. He winced and managed a smile.

Silda squeezed his hand and looked up into his eyes. “It’ll be fine. You’ll see. Once you’re there, you won’t think about this place much, and we aren’t going anywhere. We’ll still be here when you are free to come and visit.”

Petro could muster only one thought—that maybe they wouldn’t be here, and what if the Father attacked Dugual? He mentally shook his head at himself. He did look at the worst case.

“What?” Dia took his other hand.

“Nothing.”

Silda squealed, causing both Dia and Petro to jump. “I’ve got dance rehearsal. I almost forgot,” she said, letting go of Petro and swaying back and forth, her arms outstretched as she went into another spin. “Wish me luck.” She came out of her spin, blew kisses at them both, and waved good-bye as she gracefully sprinted off, taking long leaps in the air toward the castle’s back entrance.

Dia let go of Petro’s hand and put some space between them. Her head was down.

Petro shifted toward her. “I’m going to miss you.” He pushed his hands into his pockets and twisted at the torso, back and forth. “Sid won’t miss me.”

“Oh, no, he won’t. Father has him training every day; one day he’ll take over the entire guard of Dugual. He’ll be the chief of security, overseeing both our cyberforces and armed forces, although I don’t think he wants the title,” she said.

Petro held his tongue; he had a hard time seeing Sid in that role. Petro’s goal was to be chief of security, and he’d mentioned it to Sid. Since then Sid had openly aspired to serve as chief of security, but they both knew what Sid wanted, which was to be king of Dugual. But that was not going to happen with Dia first in line for the throne. She was the eldest and was heir to Dugual, even if they were fraternal twins. Sid’s declaration of being chief of security was more to annoy Petro, knowing preference would likely be given to Sid over him. Now things had changed—and Petro was leaving, and maybe it was for the better.

“Well, I need to go. My mother assigned me to prepare the staff for the ceremony. She believes in having me manage smaller tasks as a way to train me for larger tasks in the future,” she said.

“I’ve got to go, too. We can talk later tonight or early in the morning,” he said. “I’m to meet with Vetus Sepher, though I’m not sure how to feel about it. I mean, one side of me is excited to go, but there is another side of me that isn’t so excited.”

Dia reached out to him, but he pulled away.

“Well, you best be going.” Petro bowed to her. She did a curtsy, looked away, paused, looked back, and then turned and went off toward the tent where the servants waited.

Petro slammed his eyes shut and turned away so no one could see. His chest felt tight, his face was flushed, and he felt as though his life had just ended.

Those who lust are lost, and those who find themselves will be born again. For God is a merciful God, and none can claim to know His complete thoughts or the depth of His love.

—From
The Journal of Wise Sult, Leader of the Numas
, by the Wise Sult

T
he men looked on as the Father and King Offing crossed their steel blades, which sent metallic clinks reverberating off the walls. The two kings carried on, exchanging blow after blow. The throne room reeked of death, though it was filled with the sweet taste of life.

King Offing had broken into a melee, striking the Father’s sword in quick secessions of powerful hits. King Offing cut the Father’s hand; the blade just above the hilt had slid off, leaving a trail of blood in its wake.

The cut was painful, yet the Father kept his grasp on his sword. He twirled, knocking King Offing off balance with a counterblow to the back.

The Father’s hands shook; his old enemy from within, the disease, was taking hold of him. He felt it creeping into his arm, causing the blade to feel heavier, and his legs were slowing. He almost turned directly into a sword thrusting toward his side; the blade slid off the right side of his armor, which was a good thing, because if it had been on target, it might have stabbed up into his armpit.

He kicked King Offing away and stumbled backward, his balance compromised yet again and his opponent on him once more with a hack of the blade. He brought his sword up in time to meet steel on steel, and a loud metallic clang rang out.

“I will end you,” King Offing said.

The Father dared not say a word, for he was running out of breath, and he did not want King Offing to pick up on it. If he did, the Old Oak might try to outlast him, and he might even prevail. He was astonished how much life King Offing did have; he was fighting hard, and it was invigorating. The time for games was at its end, and so he spun off to the right, slipping past King Offing, who had stumbled forward, allowing the Father to position himself eight or more meters away. He waited, ready for his countermove, one he’d mastered—a killing blow. The Father brought his sword up in front of his face and lowered it, letting the tip touch the ground. He was feigning, setting his trap for the Old Oak.

King Offing regained his balance and turned about.

The Father could see the former king was weighing his options. The Great Oak breathed heavily, and his knuckles were nearly white from the vise grip he had on his sword’s hilt. One more deep breath, and he gave his battle cry and rushed the Father.

King Offing jabbed wildly with his sword, moving with great speed for a man of his size. The Father timed it perfectly, stepped to the side, brought his sword up, and moved in a half circle, catching King Offing off balance, sending his sword up in the air, rotating hilt over tip before it clattered against the stone floor. The Father slid his sword along King Offing’s arm to his exposed neck. He paused.

The Great Oak breathed hard; he knelt on one knee, eyeballing his lost blade.

The Father bent forward and whispered into King Offing’s ear. “I offer you two choices. The first is telling me what you know of the Numas, and I’ll give you an honorable death.” Sweat rolled down the sides of King Offing’s face. “Or, I could let you live in my dungeon, feeding you scraps from my table.”

No one stirred. All eyes were on the Father and King Offing. The orbs floated high above, recording the two old kings’ actions, but they were too far away to capture what the Father had said.

King Offing reached up with his hand and wiped his brow. His stare conveyed his deep thought on the choices proposed to him.

The Father knew the Old Oak might decide to take up residence in his dungeon, and be his prisoner with hopes the other kingdoms may rescue him, but there was something about the man that also said he would prefer death over the humiliation of imprisonment. Could the former king start over? He could, that was a given; but he would never have his family, his lands, or his title. He was a lost king.

King Offing closed his eyes, muttered a few words to himself, and then opened his eyes. He spoke in an undertone. “Petro, ward to King Amerstall. He has a role to play.”

The Father continued to listen.

“He is watched by the Numas. Be forewarned,” King Offing said. He spoke no more.

It was enough for the Father, and with a quick jerk, he ran the thin steel across the side of King Offing’s neck, and blood gushed out. Offing’s knees buckled, and he went to the floor, gurgling on his own blood. The red of life poured out of the wound, down his purple tunic, over his armor, covering up the great oak sigil, and then it ran down onto the stone ground, where it pooled bright red and reflected the flickering torchlights.

“Rest well.” The words trickled off the Father’s lips. He looked at the dead eyes of King Offing, at how the corners of his mouth turned down in slight cant, along with the edges of his eyes. He sighed and then straightened his posture, squared his shoulders, and twirled about to face his sons and his men. “Where is Fin?” His voice was raised a full octave.

A squire came to retrieve the Father’s bloody sword. The Father passed the sword over to the squire, and then he strolled to King Offing’s throne, sat down, and crossed his legs. He explored the room, watched the men both dead and alive, and pondered. The Great Eyes had captured every single word, every single movement—that could prove to be an issue. Certainly there would be questions about his handling of the matter in the end and about the information King Offing wanted to share in exchange for his and his son’s lives. He could easily deal with these questions, even the death of Prince Danard. There was still some concern, however, so he searched his mind, going over the recent events.

He looked up at the Great Eyes; the bronze orbs hovered high, nearly going unnoticed to those below. Half a century earlier, the Great Eyes were created and placed in the sky to hold all kingdoms accountable to the standards of war. The rules of engagement must be observed; and if they were not, penalties would ensue. This very thing irked him, knowing he had to bow to another. No king should bow to another king or the rules of many kings to suit their own needs. The strong survived, and the weak perished—Mother Nature had already established the rules. It would be better to observe Spearca’s ways for she was not easily manipulated into doing the things man wanted; she did what she pleased. He tapped his finger on his chin.

The Father waved for an orb to come to him. The bronze ball descended in a zigzag and then came to a stop. It floated low next to him, and a series of beeps and chirps emanated from its core. The device soaked in all movement, filling its sensors with images and words; short bursts of unseen radio waves passed over the electromagnetic spectrum to an external databank for further processing. Sets of algorithms or gates would compute, compare, and correlate the data, prepping to stream it over the BLUE (bilateral luminescent ultrafrequency ether) to the viewers in every castle throughout the kingdoms. No one in the room controlling the devices had heard one word or seen the events that had unfolded. Once all information was captured and processed, the Unified Kingship would review the data before dissemination.

“Kings and queens. You will see through the Great Eyes that I was just. No doubt you’ve seen the attacks on my border. I know you will come to a fair conclusion as to my behavior and my actions. I am sympathetic the deaths of King Offing, his queen, and his son. Diplomacy would not have settled this matter. King Offing’s crimes were too great to overlook. I took it upon myself to bring justice, and that is what I did. And so, today, I claim the lands of King Offing and divide it for my two sons, Dwuave and Odian. The first kingdom, ruled by Odian, will be called Ardinias; and the second kingdom will be ruled by Dwuave and called Rednex. They will make exceptional kings and will see to their people as a father does to his own children.” The Father said this with such precise serenity that he nearly believed it himself. He paused, rested his head in his hand, and then looked back up into the Great Eyes. “I only want peace.”

The Father clapped his hands together; suddenly he stopped, realizing his hand stung from the cut on the back.

“Come here, my sons.” He motioned to them.

The two approached. Both were dressed in battle-tested armor, worn down and scarred. The Father watched with his crimson eyes, which were known to send chills into those he looked upon. It was a natural defect, ocular albinism, where the pigmentation in the eye lacks melanin. This was caused by a genetic mutation of the GRP143 gene, a defective copy inherited from his mother’s X chromosome.

The Father reached into his pouch and pulled out a set of eyeglasses, thick around the edges and slightly tinted. He placed them onto the bridge of his nose, pulling the leather strap over his head to keep them in place. He glanced up to see the Great Eyes fly away.

Pain traveled up from his calves and then into his hamstrings and quads. He pulled himself straight and adjusted his eyewear. “Where is my advisor, my son Fin?”

A tall, thin figure wearing a red robe appeared from the hall and glided over the stone floor. Fin bowed his head. “I have found what King Offing mentioned.”

The Father leaned forward; his eyes were fixed on Fin. “Go on.” He motioned to his son to continue.

There are those who do not believe in the prophecy of the Coming. Some say it will be a sign for the end of times, and some say it does not constitute the end of times at all, and yet others still claim the Numas have made this entire prophecy up to attract followers who will serve their cause. Some ask, what is their cause? Some say the Numas are here to help us all, while others say they are a plague and should be done away with and never heard from again. What do you say?

—From
The Free City Press
, by Arth

P
etro walked deeper into the gardens at the back of the castle. The dark-blue shade of sky hovered overhead. He was finally by himself, taking a stroll over cobblestone paths outlined by unlit torches. A chill in the air floated over his face, touching his skin with its cool, soft hands.

“It won’t be long now,” he muttered to himself. He took in a deep breath and let it out.

Here in the garden, he could think; he could get away from it all, if for only a little while. The garden was his friend. At night, when most others were nestled inside the castle, getting ready for bed, he would come out here, exploring his thoughts and feelings, surrounding himself with the beauty of Spearca, letting his mind relax, and letting go of all the things that seemed to cling to him. Tonight would be a very busy night, and getting away was that much more necessary for Petro. The castle would house many guests; lords and ladies came from all around to see Petro’s induction ceremony. He didn’t think it was anything special, really; the Numas had ceremonies almost every season, but this season the ceremony was early for Dugual due to the prospect of this area experiencing a large snowstorm, and so this change had brought more of Dugual’s neighbors and dignitaries to pay their respects to King Amerstall, for Petro was his ward.

He drifted along, kicking rocks off the stone path and back into the garden beds on the sides. Square-cut hedges marked both sides of the path; he came to a sitting area with two stone benches surrounded by walls of dry-stacked stone with two openings at each end. He sat down, picked up a rock, and tossed it up in the air.

“What if I didn’t go? The servants would call for me. Then surely Vetus Sepher would come to my door. ‘Boy, you need to get ready quick, or there’ll be consequences. The ceremony is about to start. You don’t want to be late, do you?’” he said in a weak voice.

“I’d just sit and listen. He’d bang on the door, but I wouldn’t answer. The guards would be called and would break into my room. They’d stand there until I got dressed, but I’d take my time. ‘Come on, boy, hurry up.’” He mocked Vetus Sepher. “But I wouldn’t hurry. I’d go slower just to make them squirm. Then I’d ask, ‘Why should I go?’” He knew what they would say. “They’d say, ‘Because the king commanded it, and you were selected.’ Then I’d say, ‘So? I can make my own decision.’ But Vetus Sepher would tell me that only boys who’d proven themselves as young men could choose or some other silly nonsense.”

The rock went higher into the air, and he caught it just before it hit the bench. “Or he’d say that only young men who are needed at home get to decide to stay—if their mother is without a husband; or their father is lame; or both parents are getting too old to care for themselves with long, hard days out in the fields, bending their backs, their legs, and lifting heavy things. And…” He tossed the rock up in the air, watched, trying to think of something else to say, but he knew he couldn’t avoid the truth. “He would be right,” he finally said.

From the corner of his eye, he caught movement. Three people were coming toward him. He remained still, pretending not to notice, hoping they’d keep on walking past.

“Stand up, you!”

It was Sid. He had a scratchy voice that irked Petro each time he heard it. Sid’s nose was pointed up and looked awkward against his flat face, round eyes, and ears that swung out wide. It was like Sid was permanently stuck in that stage between a boy and man. The other two boys followed him like dogs would follow their leader, if their leader were a poodle and they were bulldogs.

“I said, stand up! Don’t you know the proper etiquette when a royal approaches?” Sid stormed over to stand in front of him.

Petro remained still, for what did it matter—it was his last day at Dugual. He and Sid never mixed well, and Sid seemed to like ordering Petro around just because he could. Petro stuck out his chin. “Sid, I never get up; you know that. Why would I do it now?”

“You address me as ‘Prince’ or ‘Your Majesty,’” Sid said, seething.

Petro gripped the rock, thinking it would be a great thing to find planted between those two gawking eyes in front of him.

“No, you are as common as I am, no different. I wonder how it feels to know you are just like me,” Petro said in an untroubled tone.

“I am no commoner.” Sid’s face turned red. “You will address me as a prince, or I’ll have you washing pans in the kitchen until day breaks.”

Petro kept his gaze on Sid, knowing it had already gone on long enough; putting the king and queen in unhappy moods was not what he wanted. “No, you are no commoner. You are a prince—that is certain.” Petro wondered if Sid caught on that he didn’t address him as prince, just acknowledged he was a prince.

“And you are not.” Sid mused at his words, looking over to his two cronies. Sid stood erect and formal. “Keal will be a baron one day, like his father, Baron Sirens of the north. Prince Shelk will be king of the Malics after his father, just like I’ll be king of Dugual after my father,” Sid said. “So, commoner, what will you be one day? Oh, I know…a Numa. A servant of both God and man. Sounds common to me.”

There was a flash of light, and Petro winced, for his head hurt suddenly.

“Sounds common to me,” Sid said. Petro was sure he’d just said that a moment ago.

Petro, agitated, dropped the rock onto the stone floor; his hand hurt from where he had gripped it too tight, and now his head hurt. The energy drained from his face. Slowly, in his own time, he got up and stood in front of Sid. He was one year older and taller than Sid. “You’ll never be king, remember? You came out second.” Oh, Petro wished he could take it back, but it was too late.

Sid’s face screwed up. He paced up and down the path, and squinted. Petro stood and could see the gears turning in his head, and he was sure to find out soon what Sid was thinking. It was a surprise to Petro when Sid’s scowl was replaced by a radiant smile. “Petro—tonight is your last night,” he said. “I think we should give you a gift, to say thank you for all the chores you did while I was away training, of all the days of washing dishes when one of the servants fell ill, of all the days of labor you gave to our kingdom.” He turned to his two friends. “What do you say? Let’s give him a hand.” Sid clapped his hands together, slow and hard, and he sped it up. The two boys joined in, and then Petro sidestepped just before Sid rushed him, sending his prince over the bench and onto the ground. Sid emerged quickly. Petro was surprised by how he had predicted Sid’s movement before it ever happened, and then he remembered—he had seen it in an instant, when the flash of light came and his head hurt.

“You’ll pay for that,” Sid said as he came at Petro again. This time he swung wild and nearly caught Petro on the chin. He missed just barely as Petro darted backward. His swing took him off-balance once more, and Sid found himself on the ground, this time in a bed of rocks.

The two other young royals chuckled.

Sid’s eyes narrowed. “Grab him,” he said. He took a rock off the ground as he got up.

Petro summed up the two bigger boys, who were near his size. There wasn’t much for him to do, so he waited for the inevitable. There was a voice inside him now, and it said this would only disappoint King Amerstall.

“I’m a prince, not your do boy,” Prince Shelk said and stood with his arms crossed. Keal didn’t say a word and grabbed Petro by the arm.

Sid held the rock in his hand, tossed it up into the air, and caught it. He closed his fingers around the edges, allowing one part to be exposed; then he brought it up and smashed it against Petro’s cheek, and a trickle of blood instantly fell to the ground. “You think you’re better than us, don’t you?”

Petro winced. He tried to keep focus, but his eyes wanted to shut from the pain that stabbed at them.

“Tomorrow you’re gone, and no one here will care, especially my father—he’ll be glad to have finally gotten rid of you.” Sid dropped the rock and attempted to spit into Petro’s face. He missed his target, being shorter, and got Petro mostly on his neck.

Petro wiped the spit off. “You’ve been saying that same thing for years. It’s gone cold. Think of something else to say; that one makes you sound too much like a commoner.”

Sid stewed. His lips turned inward, and his cheeks drew in, and then he punched Petro in the stomach—an easier target for him at his height.

Petro groaned but forced himself to straighten back up. He took another gut-wrenching punch from Sid, bent forward, and rolled Keal over, sending him to the ground. He darted through the boys, and off into a sprint he went as fast as he could. Sid was yelling, and he glanced over his shoulders to see that the young royals had stopped following.

Petro ventured out farther into the garden to a dense area where he would not be disturbed. He squeezed through the bushes and found a bare spot on the ground under the short canopy. The pain in his cheek increased when he touched it. He felt blood, and then he unconsciously ran his finger into the dirt, pulled some of it up, and then brought the dirt to his wound and rubbed it into the cut. He sighed and thought about what Sid had said—that King Amerstall was glad to be rid of him. His shoulders slumped forward, and his head hung low.