Mandestroy, Page 3

It was stunning. The sky beyond the mountains was darkening, a rich bruising punctured by the steadily appearing stars. Shadows were long, and the dry scrub absorbed the rays of the tiring sun-god. The effect was so stark that it seemed that his horse stepped over burning coals. He scanned the roots of the mountains, sure he must see his goal, tingling at the prospect. But the legendary city didn’t appear, and his stomach knotted.

  But then it did appear, looming out of the shadows, dominating the scene. He shuddered. It was a marvel of the past, a relic of the old Mikaetan power, and it was incomparably daunting. He hunkered down upon the back of his horse. Even its name brought a man out in a sweat.

  “Maegwyn.”

  Every time he came to this place, he wondered if this was how the legendary Elai had felt. The fortress was a marvel and a nightmare, and the very definition of authority. But it was also a place of poisonous politics, and this time he was to be at the centre of that storm. He would rather face a mandahoi.

  And you couldn’t beat a mandahoi.

  Then again, you couldn’t beat Maegwyn either. She was impregnable.

  It was a fortress of impossible proportions, embedded in the elbow of two mountains. A great ring formed the periphery, many stories high and palace-thick. A small city in itself. Those walls were the most daunting siege prospect in the known world, but within those encircling arms was a city of wealth and purpose. A prize of value. And that wasn’t the greatest part either. The keep at the rear of the complex soared into the sky, numerous floors spearing rebelliously into the heavens. He approached the fortress and found his head tipping at the sight. It was almost as if the tower surpassed the mountains themselves. The wind whipped, and he shivered. And yet his cloak was thick.

  Yes, this was definitely how Elai would have felt. Terror and awe. It was catching.

  The city-fortress was a symbol of Mikaetan history, but it was no longer obedient to that authority. Maegwyn was now garrisoned by Gorfinian tyranny, and that nation – the nation of Gorfinia – formed the third corner of the old Tri-liance; a partnership which he was hoping to reinstate. Maegwyn was geographically the natural place for negotiations, being as it was a central location, but the use of the fortress did offer the ever-difficult Gorfinians an upper-hand in discussions. It was their threshold that he would be crossing. But he couldn’t worry about that. He had to trust in the negotiating skills of his king. They needed friends, and these were the best options. He gulped.

  The task seemed harder with every passing moment. One hundred and fifty years had gone by without a victorious step being taken towards Ahan. So why did he think he could do the unthinkable? It was a good plan, he was sure of it. It was well-considered and thorough. But would that be enough? He could only hope.

  The gargantuan gates, themselves at least four stories in height, opened just a crack. It was so subtle that only keen eyes would spot it, but he had keen eyes. Soon true darkness would creep over the landscape, but in the final dregs of light, riders could be seen galloping at pace. The Gorfinians were coming. He tensed, but there was no reason for that. They were invited after all. Besides, what chance was there of a Gorfinian betraying the trust of his allies? He laughed, struggling to hide it as a cough, and his king flicked a stern look in his direction.

  “Sorry, your Majesty. Just a private joke.”

  There was no easing of his king’s rebuke this time.

  “Keep it to yourself, General. The Gorfinians are not famed for their sense of humour.” The king paused, presumably to let his words sink in. The ruler had an uncanny ability to make threats stick, and this was no exception. He gulped, but fortunately, that was the end of the unpleasantness. “The doormen have come to greet us. Let us meet them with open palms.”

  And with that, the king sped off with his chief banner-men, leaving Kantal to ponder the wisdom of his plan. Many had tried, and all had failed. Why would he be any different?

  After all, you couldn’t beat a mandahoi.

  ________

  This was illustrious company indeed. It was a wonder that he had managed to retain his composure. Or had he? He was rubbing his sweaty hands together. No. The nerves had got to him.

  He would rather face a mandahoi.

  “Lord King, we are grateful for your invitation.”

  His king was leading proceedings – the greater of the two men where negotiations were required. He would probably be utterly impotent if he tried to speak in any case, such was his state. He wasn’t sure his nerves would permit a coherent sentence. He tried muttering under his breath, but the result was not heartening. He kept his head lowered, peering only occasionally from his cover. It was the most comfortable he could make himself, but it was not good. This was truly an impenetrable problem, a challenge beyond his means. Thank the Father his king was here to support him.

  No, not support. His king was here to lead. He was definitely subservient in this place.

  The ruler of Delfinia, his king, sat at the far end of the table, to the right of their host. And opposite his king, to the left of their host, was a man of grand proportions. And that was the ‘tri-liance’, those three men. Or at least it would have been many decades ago. Not anymore. But he was here to reinstate that bond. He rubbed his sweaty hands together and looked at his lap. How would he do this?

  He and another were the only others in seated attendance – five places taken in total – and yet the table would seat thirty. The vast chamber was oppressive, which did nothing to settle him. And then there was the attire. The damned costumes.

  A man in a deep hooded cloak – near-black; wool of some sort; very austere – leaned towards their host. If anything, the host’s cloak was even plainer than his servant’s, but that was expected. This was the tyrant himself; the ruler of Maegwyn. He was the Hooded King of Gorfinia, and no-one ever heard him speak. As the Hooded King ceased his apparent whispering, the aide straightened and relayed the message.

  “My Lord would like to remind you that you invited yourselves.”

  A shiver went through him. This was certainly not a place of friends, but he hadn’t expected such immediate spite. His king seemed undeterred, thankfully.

  “Of course, Lord King Gorfin. Then we are grateful for your hospitality.”

  The King’s hood was so deep that it projected to near elbow length from his face. What of the inner-cowl could be seen was only black, and his features were therefore entirely concealed. That was the fear of the Hooded King: no-one knew what lay inside. With that simple mechanism, he kept a kingdom in check. Fear was a wonderful thing, and he shivered. It was certainly working on him.

  He gulped and noted that the hood of the servant was also very deep. It was a badge of honour for these strange Gorfinian people; the depth of the hood determining social standing. So even the servant was probably a high-up aide, or perhaps even Gorfinian nobility; whatever that involved. He gulped once more, forcing himself to stop fiddling with his hands. As he looked away from the Gorfinian horrors, he came face to face with the man opposite him. Another hood and another cloaked existence. It cut right through him and forced his hands to fidget once more. He sank lower in his chair, head bowing instinctively; as if to hide his face. Everyone else seemed to be hiding their faces, albeit in hoods. Why not him? Damn the attire.

  The man opposite was, in many ways, more intimidating than the Hooded King. And worse than that: this freak was here at his invitation. This man had ways, which was why he was present, but with that usefulness came a shroud. But in this poisonous atmosphere he fit like a pair of greaves and seemed at perfect ease. The bastard.

  A tap grabbed his attention, and he turned to see the aide lean in once more. When the hooded assistant pulled away, the weight of expectation paralysed him. What flavour of spite would this be?

  “My Lord asks if you are in need of refreshment?”

  He exhaled and pulled his hand from the belt he
’d been fiddling. His king nodded on both of their behalf, and with the subtle elevation of the Hooded King’s hand, curtains were thrown aside to reveal a battalion of servants. They scurried from the edges of the room, turning the vast table into an exquisite example of casual feasting. When the transformation was complete, the only stretch of polished bone that remained uncluttered was the section that held the wide map of the near world. Yes indeed; the table was made of the bone of some beast, and a big beast at that. He shivered again.

  But despite that, the room was incredible. It was taller than most houses, lined with pillars, and draped with a host of varying but equally dour family banners. At the far end, behind the Gorfinian King, the room was entirely open; bare to the inner-circle of Maegwyn. The views from the chamber were frankly incredible, and he thought he could even see to the northern lands of Rhagastos. This citadel was the old centre of the Mikaetan Empire at its greatest, and it was also the place where Delfin had challenged her father and splintered the country that he now served. The place reeked of history, incredible stories infecting every part of the room, and this fact crawled all over him. He was an imposter in this place.

  If he needed any other reason to sweat, then the sheer weight of the surroundings would do it. Unfortunately, none of the other