Justice

This is quite an older story of mine. Now, for some time I've been conceiving my own fantasy(-ish) world... well, probably read too much of George R. R. Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire. Shame the third book is on hold. And that story too. Too much anime. But that's for another time, perhaps.

So... this short story is set in the Lands of Mare, an empire consisting of three kingdoms: Westervell, Newlane, and Hart. This story is set, I believe, a hundred or so years before my main story-on-hiatus.

Justice

 By Nathan Hartanto

As he flung open the heavy oaken doors that creaked loudly as he walked past its great arch of a frame, he saw his father on the far side of the grand hall, clad in golden robes and shadowed from the back by the brilliant sunlight that filtered through the great stained windows behind.

       His father, the King, sat up from the Throne of the Dragon, his arms pressed against the dragonbone armrests to help lift the thin, frail frame under the flowing robes.

           Except for the two of them, the grand hall was empty. Even from afar he can see that his father is different than the last he saw him, when he was given the Legion to destroy barbarian campings to the mountains of the Divide. When his captain informed him that Mare has fallen into anarchy brought on them by the doings of the King, he rushed at once.

           The man upon the throne was not his father, King Riga the Great. He could not be.

           Prince Valerius dared step closer, his steps echoing in the cold marble which is the floor of the hall. Step by step he took, bringing him closer and closer to the throne on the high dais, every step seemingly heavier than the last, as if the sword and dagger on his belt grew heavier, and his gilded steel armor ever more cumbersome below the piercing, icy gaze of his father.

          No—not icy, Prince Valerius saw as he reached halfway the length of the hall. The blue eyes, both of which also borne by his son, had been icy once, and unflinching, he remembered. That was over three years ago, when he last saw him. These eyes were empty, sunken, and… he could not believe it, no…

           Mad.

          Could it be these eyes that threatened the King’s court into fleeing? Could it be these eyes that commanded his men to pillage the great City of Mare, its white stone sprawled wide below him? The Prince could not—no, did not want to believe such.

         And yet he saw enough proof of that, when he saw the City Guard collect gold and burning stalls on the streets below, in the name of King Riga. He called for the guarding Pledges to open the gates of the Citadel, and they refused on the orders of the King.

The Pledges, known for exactly their namesake, have been pledged to unwavering loyalty to their King, thus the Prince ordered his Legion to storm the palace. Inside, he saw the keep very well guarded, save for himself, his loyal guardsmen, and bloody bodies, perhaps the courtiers, long dead from the smell, and for the flies have left them to rot. He barely made it to the throne, with his guards covering his advance and bought time for him by fighting the Crownguards.

           He drew his sword, pointing it at his father the King as he continued to take his steps. The King did not respond, not a word, not a movement, but still the empty eyes followed Prince Valerius.

            He noticed there were no more Crownguards in the hall, his father sitting alone. Is he mad?

           Justice must be done, he finally thought, and answers must be drawn. “What have you done?” he asked, his voice trembling, and not by his own will.

           Silence. Just the echoing steps of steel sabatons on hard marble disturbed the peace in the hall.

           “What have you done?” the Prince asked again, louder, and trembling more. He suddenly felt a chill on his spine.

          “Justice,” came the answer from his father’s mouth. It sounded older, wearier than he last heard it.

         “By torching half the city and pillaging the other? This—this is not justice,” answered Valerius, each word heavy on his tongue as his legs are to his steps.

         “Justice,” the King echoed his words, “The word of the King is justice.”

        The chill on his spine grew colder. Those were the words with which his father taught him when he was a mere child. Now he was a man grown, with the power to take the life of his mentor—no, he does not want to think about that possibility.

     Then Valerius remembered. There was a mail his father sent to him while he was still campaigning in the frigid mountains of the Divide. His mother, the Empress, had passed away in peace. “Is it… mother?”

         “Justice,” again came the answer.

        “What?” screamed the Prince on the top of his lungs. By then he was at the foot of the throne, with legs trembling and hand shaking, but still managing to hold the sword to his father’s thin throat.

         “The gods are cruel.”

         Leon thought about these words, words that again his father used to teach him. He could not say that his father was wrong all those years ago, and nor can he now. The gods are cruel, for them to take his father and wound him with madness. Even more so, they let him watch his father’s madness.

          Cruel, the gods were, their eyes bore on the Prince’s back.

      Prince Valerius fell on his knees, sword clattering on the floor, echoing loudly. Half of him wished he died at the hands of barbarians. It was a good thing that he ordered his men to guard outside the hall, for they should not witness their future king on his knees, defeated.

        “It was mother,” said the Prince finally, realizing what made his father’s descent into madness.

        “The gods took her from me. I take what would be the gods’.”

        As afraid he was, the other half of Prince Valerius knew of the dire need to stop the King. “This is madness.” He noticed his voice; it did not tremble so anymore. He dared look up. King Riga had stepped down from the dais and looked at his son heartlessly, like an executioner at his victim. Truly, this was not the man that once was his father. This one is a mad demon, with skin as pale as moonlight and withered as an old fruit; not the once-strong warrior king with a tanned face that attracted every good woman in his realm, the face his mother loved and the Prince inherited.

      “Madness,” King Riga agreed. He stepped right in front of his son, and with his long fingers grabbed the Prince’s chin. “Madness of the gods exchanged by mine. My Love will rest in peace.”

       The King bowed low and grabbed at the sword once held by Prince Valerius, the long steel blade perfectly forged both to stab and to slice, with its hilt decorated by silver. He held it against the light streaming from the vast windows of the hall and said, “Your blood spilled by this sword will make a grand offer for the gods in exchange for my love.”

       So he is mad. A madman is unfit for the Throne of the Dragon, the throne that held the good Emperors of old: Marius the Conqueror, the wise old Valerian, Ignus that was called the Lion, even the valiant Marcus, slain during the Rebellion of the Three Kings. No king shall ever murder and steal from his own people.

            His great House of West claimed this great city of Mare, who was found the most suiting for the position by the other kings of Newlane and Hart.

           And his dynasty must remain to be trusted. Justice needs to be done, Prince Valerius knew. The King held the hilt with both hands, and heaved it back, ready to strike.

            My duty is to my realm, he knew. His father told him long ago. “Justice,” he said softly.

            King Riga, with all the might left in his wizened body, swung his son’s sword for the neck.

            The Prince was young, and agile, and strong in comparison of the old King. In the instant, his heart leapt back, filling him again with power. Just before the steel bit his neck, he grabbed the hilt of the sword, wrenching it free from his father’s hands.

           “Justice needs to be done, in the name of the gods.” He declared. “For the sake of our people, I do sentence you to death.” His hands and his words did not tremble. He lifted the sword, aimed, and thrust it to the heart of the mad demon. He did not miss.

         In an instant, fresh red blood gushed from the hole, staining the cloth-of-gold that made the King’s robes. “My love, oh gods,” he murmured, gurgling, before he fell to his knees as his son did, and he passed away when his son removed the sword, dead before his face hit the marble floor. The golden crown, which Prince Valerius just noticed to be on King Riga’s bald head the whole time, clattered on the floor as the King fell, and rolled until stopping at the foot of the Prince.

          Prince Valerius cleaned his sword and sheathed it back to where it had been when he entered the hall. “No madman is fit for this crown,” he declared as he bowed to pick up the crown.

        Without looking back at the body in a pool of red, he strode back to the heavy oaken doors where he came in through, his shoulders heavy not of grief, but of duty he carried with his father’s crown and that which he will carry on the Dragon Throne of the Emperors.

           

A short story in the lore of The Kingdoms of Mare

Jakarta, 19 April 2015