"Why would Vlaric order dummy bombs?," muttered McMasters. After all, he wasn't present when Vlaric ordered a triple batch of phérium bombs along with those missiles; General LaGras was. Unfortunately, now, the top commanding officer and the bulk of Eldonia's army were dead, killed in an accidental missile launch.
Just thinking of that horrible blunder gave McMasters pause. The missiles were mislabelled, simple as that, and Banes suspected – No, outright accused – those now residing at Starfield House responsible. But how, thought McMasters, could they pull it off. In the days before and immediately after the accidental and complete destruction of Koror Province, Starfield House was put under surveillance. Many people entered but none left that that building, so it couldn't have been any of them. No one, other than that handful of soldiers, ever appeared on the Plain of Anarona; and any unauthorized persons were to be arrested on the spot. Again, nothing remotely resembling Banes' accusations ever presented itself. Nevertheless, Banes insisted the missile switch had to be an inside job.
Well, even though, something happened that night of the missile launch. Perhaps the men misread the labels, or...
Whatever. Orders are orders. Bomb Starfield House until it's a smouldering heap. Then raid the place, what's left of it, and arrest any survivors...
"Sir!," addressed McMasters' corporal, "The bombs are in place. What are your orders?"
The sergeant, still reeling from last night's deadly mistake, said, "Regent Banes' orders are to wait until late this afternoon, just before sunset. Only then are you to begin bombardment. And this time, corporal, things will go right."
++++++
An afternoon gathering at the Golden Tiara sat a happy little group just passing the time. Well, it was a pleasant meeting of friends who had dropped in for libation and nice conversation. However, much was on the patrons' minds these days. Only days ago, just before Day of the Landing festivities. That was a joyous occasion marred by Prince Asen's kidnapping. No, corrected one friend to another, the prince wasn't kidnapped. His Highness, son of the the much beloved, and late, King Vlaric, turned his back on his people. Asen, under the influence of the rebellious Benutians and other members of the Alliance, simply walked away from his birthright and country.
"And now he's on the run with those devils," said one man.
"Have you heard the latest?," asked the barmaid as she set on the table another round, "The rebels have seized the provincial seat of Lemrac. Why, all trains between here and Koror Province have stopped running."
"So that's why," replied the woman at the table, "I couldn't get the Lemrac Express this morning. The man at the station said all the trains have been held up. In fact, last night's Express had yet to arrive from Lemrac. Power outage he said, and several raging fires all over Koror."
The lady's husband said bitterly, "Why Banes has yet to stamp out those rebels is inexcusable. If I was in charge, the first thing I'd do is to level Starfield House to the ground, kill everyone in it. That should send a message to the Alliance. Then I'd march every able-bodied man to Benut and wipe it out. Then on to Nemir. Get them, too. I've always said it's best to get rid of the problem people once and for all. Vlaric's baby purge didn't go far enough. His Majesty should have slaughtered the parents as well, and their governor. Good riddance, and we wouldn't be having the problems now."
The group continued to damn the Benutians and rebel Alliance, and, in the same breath, praise Banes for trying to make things right for all Eldonia. They derided Chenek and Evore, ridiculed the pathetic gathering at Starfield House, and generally disparaged the fact that they had to put up with degenerates and freakish types for far too long. Wipe them out. Kill them all. That's the only way to bring about peace and order for the true Eldonians. Why waste time and energy trying to get along with these people? Why try to reform and assimilate them? Such efforts have never worked in the past. Just annihilate them and be over it.
Not far from this group, at a table in a darkened corner, a lone patron sat, nursing his ale. He took in his neighbors' conversation, nodding off and on as if agreeing with their tirades. It was all so simple, he thought while listening. So simple and characteristic of the average Eldonian, even if the ones sitting here damning the resistance are members of the aristocracy and professional classes. If he were to go out on the street now, approach a working class Eldonian, one who doesn't enjoy the perks and special favors of the Crown, the response would be the same. So brainwashed are the common folk by their betters, too stupid to realize their very views are shaped by the ones who oppress and brutalize. Oh, they could think on their own, but that is discouraged as such independent thought often leads to rebellion. Well, isn't that what the Alliance is doing now? Exercising their natural right to think for themselves, to realize something must be done to stamp out the very regime that murders and oppresses.
He had heard enough, rising from his seat and leaving a handful of aurae on the table. He was just out the door when he nearly collided with an old man who appeared not the type that frequents this highbrow tavern. The man's wrinkled face was partially hidden by a heavy, shaggy gray beard; his matted hair tumbled about his shoulders. The clothes were soiled and nearly threadbare.
The departing patron looked at the old man and said, "My good fellow, by your appearance, you won't get far inside the Golden Tiara. They will soon throw you into the streets or, worse, call Banes' guards to haul you to the dungeons."
The old man smiled and shrugged. He said, "I wasn't about to set foot in there with all those closed-minded snobs. I was on my way to Starfield House, but it's on lockdown already..."
He paused, peering deeply into the young man's face. Instantly he recognized just who the person was.
"Dian?," he whispered with a gasp. "I would've known those eyes anywhere. What's going on with the shape shift?"
"Just checking out the mood of the people," Dian said, "and as usual, they're so complacent in their so called superiority. They have no inkling their precious country faces imminent catastrophe."
The old man giggled, saying, "Well, let them keep thinking that, spewing their hatred and contempt. They'll learn far too late that their ways have earned them a death sentence."
The sorceress Dian, still in her young man disguise, removed a key from her pocket and said, "Take this. It unlocks Entrance #6 to the tunnels. From there you will be able to get into Starfield House...Better yet..."
She whispered something to the old man who couldn't believe such a suggestion. He said just before Dian departed, "You want me to get caught? What about Banes? You know how he operates. He'd soon kill me–"
"Oh no," replied Dian. "He won't do that – yet. He'll toy with you at first, let you stew in the dungeons until he decides to make his next move. Actually, you'll be safe in there, as the palace will be the last to be destroyed. Do not worry, my friend, as the spell will wear off in time, just as Banes thinks he has you where he wants..."
++++++
It didn't take long for the old man to find the secret tunnel entrance. Out of thirteen such entrances, the sixth was the hardest, to the untrained, unknowing eye, to access. Hidden behind an abandoned warehouse in Tyq's least desirable areas, one had to undo the special padlock, not an easy task without that key.
The old man, his hands unsteady, tried to insert the key into the padlock, but he dropped it. Damn wobbly hands, he grimaced, cursing his advancing age and declining reflexes. He could take hold of nothing without dropping it; the arthritis in his hands was that bad.
Stooping down to pick up the key, he thought he heard a noise, footsteps even, not far from where he stood. Now, who would dare come here, to this old warehouse in this desolate part of town? No one lives here except vagabonds and the criminal element – An appropriate place for ne'er-do-well's to hide out.
The noise became more prominent. Yes, it was footsteps, several people approaching from around the corner. Working as quickly as he could, the old man, key in hand, fumbled the lock, dropping the key once again. He was that nervous. Cursing, he stooped down, not paying attention to the approaching footsteps. He had the key again, this time gripping it tightly as not to drop it a third time. Ah, now, fit this into the lock...Turn it twice...Almost there...I feel funny, as if the spell is wearing off..
He felt hands upon him. Whoever that was approaching was so quiet he never noticed they were right behind him. He deftly pocketed the key then turned around to face the men. Indeed, two of Banes' guards had him cornered; one had the shackles out to bind his hands.
"Well, well," said the first burly guard, "Looks as if we've found the turncoat steward after all. Hert, you are under arrest per orders of Regent Banes."
Hert, who knew the spell had worn off, had transformed back into himself just before the guards spotted him. It was all planned that way, so he didn't quite panic. All would be set right, so Dian promised. Hert could only pray that the sorceress was right.
Slightly grinning, he asked the second guard, "And what is the charge?"
That man replied as he clamped on the shackles, "High treason. Banes suspected you were working for the Alliance. That man you conversed with outside the Golden Tiara must be your contact."
"But," said Hert with feigned defeat, "he is now at Starfield House. You won't be able to get him there. The place is on lockdown."
"Then, said the first guard, "we'll get him when Starfield House is bombed to smithereens. If he survives, he'll live long enough to hang, along with the others."
A shackled Hert was escorted to the Royal Palace dungeons where he would remain until sentencing. There wouldn't be a trial – such things are never done in Eldonia. All who are charged with treason are tortured unmercifully then gruesomely and painfully executed. Hert knew the method of torture, and it paled in comparison to the actual execution. Fifty lashes followed by several brandings with hot irons. Nails are ripped from fingers and toes, then the feet are hovered over hot coals until charred and blistered. Then comes the execution, in full view of the public. The prisoner is hanged by the neck but just within moments of death, then he is set ablaze. If the smoke and flames don't kill him, the lions will finish him off. This was all done in public, and the people relished in such horrible displays of inhumanity. Many an Eldonian family made a day of it, bringing picnic lunches carrying on as if a merry day at the fair. Too often the hapless victim would find himself jeered and laughed at; what the beasts left behind would be carried home by the people as souvenirs.
Not that Hert worried of this gruesome fate, on the contrary. If the timing was right, and the Alliance's friends carried out the assault with success, Hert could at last throw off the remainder of the spell, but only in Banes' presence. The man who fancied himself king, who murdered innocents along with his own partner in crime, would soon rue the day he ever crossed the true ruler of Eldonia. No, Hert was not the true ruler, that would be Danielle; but Hert did harbor one secret that would forever change life for Prince Asen. Banes would learn that secret once the precious city of Tyq is reduced to smouldering ruins.
Copyright©2006, 2007 by P.R. Parker. All rights reserved.