Tokus Numas (5 page)

The Unified Kingship was created for all the kingdoms of the realm. We hold a great deal of responsibility to the kingdoms of Spearca, and may the Great Eyes forever be used impartially, and never allow one to gain favor over another.

—From
Unified Kingship’s Governance Doctrine
, by the Unified Kingship

T
he Father and his two other sons were near one another, around the throne, with Fin in his red cloak standing across from them. Guards stood at the ready; dead bodies littered the floor. The air was thick, a measure above normal temperatures, drawing heat from those who remained and holding the heat of those who had died in battle. The Father pulled at his neckline, letting air flow, but his armor kept him from making much progress. He took notice of Fin, eager to hear what King Offing had offered before he met his end.

“He had encrypted the information, but we were able to retrieve most of it. It speaks of one of power beyond our own understanding. This being is called Mittere Ergon and will turn fear into vengeance and bring forth death and destruction,” Fin said.

The Father was not impressed—his mouth wiggled, and he raised an eyebrow. “So, it is some sort of prophecy, is it? The one to come and destroy—say, me?” He tapped his finger against his chest.

Laughter erupted and then fell away.

“It is a prophecy—though more so of the coming of the end of Spearca,” Fin said.

The Father reached up with one hand and rubbed his left temple. “I wonder if this was one of the sacred scripts of the Numas. I recall one such script, only part of it, where the stars would reveal to all the presence of one with power. Something I learned while I served in a Numa city temple. It’s a story, nothing more,” he said.

His real thoughts he kept to himself until he was out of earshot of the soldiers around them. This was not the hidden technology he set out to uncover, but was there something to what King Offing said about Petro, ward to King Amerstall? The Father tapped his fingers against the armrest of the royal chair. He leaned forward, keeping his gaze upon his adviser.

Fin averted his eyes and said, “Father, this prophecy also speaks of a blue fire that will encompass Spearca.”

The Father ran his left hand through his thick, gray hair. “A blue fire? Hmm. I never heard that one mentioned in the halls of the Numa temple I once served. I do know of this special being, this Mittere Ergon. It’s an interesting tale, but it holds no factual information; and besides, prophecies are almost always interpreted after major events. Strange, don’t you agree?”

“Of course, sire. There is one more thing of note,” Fin said. “It says that upon the day when the ring of fire appears in the sky, he shall know his true nature.” Fin bowed his head and moved away.

Even as the Father mocked the ancient scripts, he still wondered if there was truth to this Mittere Ergon. He doubted it, but part of him was curious to know more. It must be of importance if the Numas had trusted King Offing to be their Keeper for the ancient text. King Offing’s devotion to the ways of the Numas, his devotion to protecting their technology—his devotion had never been put to the test. King Offing had given him a place to start—Petro, ward to King Amerstall of Dugual.

The wealth of Dugual was immense; all the kingdoms contracted through Dugual for scientists, engineers, and the development of new technology. When each transaction was processed, Dugual was paid a margin, and King Amerstall had built up an enormous treasury over many decades—enough coin to defend his lands and to provide protection to the Free City. It was a match made for any king to have, though many did deal in the black markets, where products produced were often subpar unless one paid an enormous amount of dulles.

He’d been to the Free City on several occasions—once was for the uplinks, which was a joint investment made by all the kingdoms. They pooled the city’s creative minds and used their ingenuity to produce new technology. This new way of communicating was only for royalty, and it recognized important houses and positions. Uplinks gave those in power the ability to walk about and communicate, while commoners used basic landlines to carry their voices across the land. The latest invention was the viddon, a way to communicate with sounds and images, but it became a part of the person. The Father had put up coin just like the others did, but it was the implants near the ear and throat that intrigued him most. This was different; this was moving into a stage of merging man with machine—a revolution was on the horizon. Still, the Father believed this cutting-edge technology to pale in comparison with what the Numas had in their possession.

Man and machine were the future, together—not separate as it was today. Only with a major leap in their progress would the Father live to see it come to fruition. All around him were men, dead and alive, yet all were creations—all had a code and a program deep inside their genomes. The mind, the body, the heart—all were finely tuned together. Life was something to behold, to live, to take, and to do with as one pleased if one dared. Machines were a way to enhance life—and extend it. Death was nothing; it meant nothing except that one’s time had passed. King Offing did not need to throw his life away, but he was compelled to do so; and men like King Offing would perish. These men were the reason for men like the Father to live. Even with the disease that coursed through him, he was not about to stop living, to lie down in his bed and wait for the hands of death to clutch his throat and end his life. No, he meant to use every moment like it was his last. His energy within seemed to drain, and his face flushed. It was time to dismiss his men.

The Father adjusted his posture, sitting upright. He motioned with his hand to all those who stood about the throne room. “You may all go. Honor my sons; live this moment, and drink your fill. Let the ladies come out and show their beauty. Take this moment, remember it, and never let it go,” he said.

The men moved, stepping over dead foes and former comrades. A man with his helmet dented on the left side, dressed in a gold cloak, approached the Father, pulled his blade, and stretched outward, swiping at his neck. The blade sunk into his flesh. The Father grabbed the man’s hand and held it in place, noticing the eyes were filled with rage. Dwuave and Odian seized the man, gripping his arms and rearing him backward, putting him to the ground.

The Father pulled the blade from his flesh, dropped it, and covered the wound with his hand. He gritted his teeth to block out the throbbing ache. His red of life was running down into his neckline, under his tunic and armor. Servants rushed to the Father and began to work on the wound, wiping it clean and then inspecting it. The Father paid them no mind; his attention was on the man who had spilled his red of life.

“Bring me his blade,” the Father said. He fixed his eyes on the man, holding his facial features motionless.
It was a foolish attempt
, he thought.
Men with rash thoughts in their heads and too little courage in their hearts.

A guard brought the blade, and the Father took it, being careful not to cut either of them with its edge. He ran his fingers down its cold steel, wiping his blood off. His eyes followed, examining the blade, taking in its design. “This is a fine blade—strong, balanced, and sharp. All one would want in a weapon—to serve its master faithfully and without fail,” he said. He looked over at the man on the ground. “Let him up.”

Dwuave and Odian released their hold, and the man stood up, staring back at the Father. In an instant the Father struck the man’s heart. The man gasped, expelled his air, and fell to the ground. His red of life flowed out of his body and onto the stone, pooling around his figure.

There was a shift, a change in this moment which was unknown to the Father himself. It was so brief, so subtle like that of a hair fallen from one’s head while asleep and turning over in bed.

The men moved, stepping over dead foes and former comrades. A man with his helmet dented on the left side, dressed in a gold cloak, approached the Father. Another guard grabbed the man’s sleeve. The Father eyes lingered on the two—awaiting their outcome, noticing the commotion. The man with the dented helmet jerked away, pulled his blade, stretched outward, and sunk the blade into the Father’s flesh.

The Father grabbed the man’s hand and held it in place; noticing the eyes were filled with guilt; the man looked away, dropping the knife. Dwuave and Odian seized the man, gripping his arms and, rearing him backward, put him to the ground.

The Father pulled the blade out and covered the wound with his hand. He gritted his teeth. Servants rushed to the Father and began to work on the wound, wiping it clean and then inspecting it. The Father paid them no mind; his attention was on the man who had spilled his red of life.

“Bring me his blade,” the Father said. He fixed his eyes on the man, holding his facial features motionless.
It was a foolish attempt
, he thought.
Men with rash thoughts in their heads and too little courage in their hearts.

A guard brought the blade, and the Father took it, being careful not to cut either of them with its edge. He ran his fingers down its cold steel. His eyes followed, examining it, taking in its design. “This is a fine blade—strong, balanced, and sharp. All one would want in a weapon—to serve its master faithfully and without fail,” he said. He looked over at the man on the ground. “Let him up.”

Dwuave and Odian released their hold, and the man stood up.

“Are you like this blade? Faithful, full of character, strong-willed, and just? I wonder. Like you, the blade is hard, and like you, it is strong; but unlike you, it follows its master. You, however, do not. You may think you do, but your master is dead. Do you understand me?” the Father said. His eerie eyes wandered up and down the man’s figure. “Nod if you do.”

The man gave a slight nod. His features relaxed.

“Yes, of course you do. All men know. So I tell you to be like the blade. Know when to be wielded and when not; know when to act but not on your own. Be the blade, and you will do well.” The Father lifted the blade up, holding it high with one hand, its point toward the ceiling.

“Killing me would have bought you one thing, and it cannot be returned. Your eyes would have shut, and there would be no life in you. The red of life is precious, and a man must understand himself; he must understand his life is not his own, his life passes to another. See my sons? They are me—my reason for existing at all is for them. They will have sons, their sons will have sons, and their sons will have sons, and on and on. Don’t you see?” He studied the man’s reaction to see him look away in shame, his eyes somber and acute—understanding his mistake.

A physician came up to the Father, gently lifted his hand, and began to clean the wound. The Father grimaced and continued his conversation.

“If you have sons, they will live because you have lived, and they exist because you have existed. They will have sons, and their sons will have sons, and on and on. Though if your line perished today, what would your life prove?” The Father waited.

It was a long, quiet moment; one might have forgotten there were others in the room. “My sons will live even if I die. And if I must die, I do so with integrity,” the man finally said.

“Yes, many men live by this code. They must prove themselves and show their worth by dying. It’s a wonder we have any men left,” the Father said.

Light chuckles came from the soldiers.

“If you die, who then protects your children? Who then ensures their safety? When a man dies, so does his family. Especially if that man has made an attempt on someone with power.” The Father bored into the man with his crimson stare.

The man caught the Father’s gaze, and he shut his eyes and opened his mouth slightly, his eyebrows arched and his lips turned down.

The Father’s face was still.

“I give pause for this moment because you show courage, but in the wrong moment, many have died for that mistake. Today, I allow you to go and live with meaning and teach this moment to your sons so your line may pass on and never perish,” the Father said. He thought,
When this man leaves, after many nights of contemplation, he’ll teach others of this experience, and his sons will serve only masters who are strong and who take what must be taken, and they’ll never give their loyalty to another out of sheer honor, only out of reason
.

The Father waved his hand and dismissed the man.

The man bowed his head and then made his way through the men packed thickly together. They did not give much room as he went on, causing him to shift, to slide, to catch his balance, and to receive a bump from some of the soldiers’ shoulders until he disappeared.

“The rest of you may go. Enjoy this night and live in the moment,” the Father said. He reached up and felt the red moisture on his neck. The physician was stitching the wound. He dabbed at it with his fingertip and then looked at the red of life. He sucked it off his finger and said to himself quietly, “From my veins spring the red of life.”

His sons, Dwuave and Odian, approached.

The Father held up his finger, showing them his red of life. “Amazing, isn’t it?” he said. “I’ve become too trusting of my own coin. I need to remember that” Coin did carry only so much loyalty, he knew that already. This was not completely unexpected. What was unexpected was his lack of measure to ensure his own safety. And the other guard, who seemed to know the attacker’s intentions right before it occurred, had disappeared.
Where did that other solider go?
the Father wondered.