Prophecy of the kings - chapter 3

The following morning, patches of light mist hugged the ground. The sky itself was cloudless and the sun felt pleasantly warm on Kaplyn’s back as they made their way towards the competition arenas. By his side, Lars groaned loudly, putting his hand to his forehead.

“What’s the matter?” Kaplyn asked. He could guess, but was feeling devilish.

“Too much ale,” Lars moaned. He looked pale and his eyes were red rimmed. Kaplyn shook his head, grinning.

They came to a large field filled with tents whose apexes sported bright coloured pennants. Even though it was early there was a buzz of voices, occasionally interrupted by shouts of exultation from spectators.

 Kaplyn was nervous, but the archery was not until later. He considered himself a good shot and fancied his chances of winning. In the meantime, he followed Lars to the wrestling arena. A long faced official with pious eyes took Lars’ entry fee, which he tossed with a loud clatter into a metal pot beneath the table by his side. Lars offered Kaplyn a brave smile as he went to join the other contestants to await their bouts.

A barrel-chested referee with wild unkempt hair and an even wilder look in his eyes bullied the men into a line.

“Stand straight,” he grouched, standing before the men like a drill instructor. “When I touch your shoulder and say a number, then remember it. One’s will fight two’s.”

He walked down the line touching each man’s shoulder and saying either one or two. “Right, pair up. There are five arenas. Off you go and good luck.”

The men turned, looking somewhat bemused until other referees took charge.

Kaplyn followed Lars and five other men. Their referee started the fight and much to Kaplyn's surprise Lars managed to win the first two without any problems. He was surprisingly agile and clearly knew some clever holds. The third fight proved more difficult. Lars’ opponent was about his size, but it soon became clear that he knew little about wrestling and was simply using his weight and height. Lars finished the fight with a double arm lock that, no matter how hard he squirmed, his opponent could not break. He yelped for a submission and the referee signalled that the fight was over.

There followed a short break while Lars awaited his next challenger who, as yet, had not finished his fight in one of the other stadium. Lars sat on the grass, taking time to recover. Then a tall gangly individual swaggered into the ring, oozing an air of confidence. Looking down his long nose at Lars, his lip curled in a sneer. Most contestants wore similar apparel, vests and tight trousers, so their opponents did not have anything to grip. Lars’ vest did nothing to conceal his over large paunch.

The fight started and Lars circled his opponent who abruptly leapt towards the bigger man and delivered a hefty blow with his elbow to Lars’ chin before stepping back. The crack from the contact was audible and a roar went up from the crowd. Someone jostled Kaplyn and he nearly lost his balance, having to grab the rope separating contestants and spectators, for support. Kaplyn glanced over his shoulder and gagged on the smell of stale breath.

“Sorry,” grinned a man leaning on his shoulder and almost immediately Kaplyn was shoved again as the man became excited a second time. “Go on, Remus. Hit the lump of lard.”

Lars was holding his chin and was glaring furiously at his opponent who was circling, trying to get behind him.

“Hit him again Remus,” shouted the man behind Kaplyn.

Without warning, the lighter man stepped in, delivered a blow to Lars’ shoulder with his fist and stepped nimbly back. Lars turned to catch him but the other man kicked out against Lars’ knee and again spun away. 

Lars seemed to be moving very slowly against the lighter man and Kaplyn thought he could not last much longer. Already his nose was bleeding and he had a distinct limp. His opponent was clearly enjoying himself and he skipped back and forth in front of Lars.

“That’s my boy,” shouted the chap behind Kaplyn and others in the crowd shouted encouragement. The jostling and the loud voice in his ear was annoying Kaplyn. Pushing back against the supporter he cast him a withering look that seemed to do the trick. The other man raised his hands apologetically and stepped back a few inches.

Twice more a fist flashed out. Lars almost looked to be standing still. Then suddenly, with no warning, Lars had caught his opponent’s arm, spun and ducked under the arm, turning it harshly up the other man’s back. His opponent’s face dropped and he tried to stand on tiptoes but Lars forced the arm higher until Kaplyn fancied he heard the joint pop.

“Ouch,” shouted the man behind Kaplyn. “That must have hurt.”

Kaplyn afforded himself a smile at the other man’s misfortune as the referee leapt in to stop the fight. Lars’ rival dropped like a sack of potatoes and rolled on the ground clutching his arm. The referee raised Lars’ arm, signalling that he had won.

Amazingly, the next bout was the final. Kaplyn pushed his way through a sizeable crowd, apologising as he went for treading on toes or having to be too forceful to gain passage. The nearest tout was a short, bad tempered looking individual with a large hook-nose.

“Two silver calder on Lars to win,” Kaplyn shouted above the din. The tout snatched the money, which swiftly disappeared into a large pocket. He scribbled something on a slip of paper and thrust it into Kaplyn’s hand. He was already serving the next person and Kaplyn pushed his way from the queue while trying to decipher the unintelligible script on the discoloured paper.

If Kaplyn knew how Lars felt he might have refrained from betting. When Kaplyn arrived back at the arena Lars was standing by the ropes, doubled over with his hands on his knees. His face was pale and his knees were shaking. “Too much beer, Kaplyn.” Loudly, he belched and grinned.

“He looks a bit more of a challenge,” Lars said nodding to the opposite side of the arena. A broad-chested man glared disdainfully at Lars. He was of equal size, broad across the chest and his upper arms were almost as thick as his thighs. His nose looked liked it had been used to straighten a wall.

 The referee who initially paired the fighters came into the ring. The crowd fell silent.

“In the final …,” the referee bellowed, “…on my right hand side, needing no introduction, Darl from Pendrat,”

“Darl for champion,” someone shouted.

“We’re with you, big man,” shouted another.

 “And on my left is Lars,” the referee continued above other shouts of support for Darl. “As you can see Lars is not from Allund but we don’t want to hold that against him.”

“Break his leg, Darl” someone shouted.

Kaplyn grimaced. By the sounds of the support, Lars was in trouble whether he won or lost.

“Let’s have a clean fight. Start!” said the referee and dozens of voices shouted encouragement.

Warily Lars circled his opponent.

“Come on big man,” taunted Darl. He waved a hand beckoning Lars and trying to encourage the other man to attack.

Lars shook his head. Kaplyn wondered if he was still trying to recover his breath.

A flicker in Darl’s shoulders caused Lars to step aside, but the Allunder did not attack. He merely sneered at the other man’s caution.

Then, with a loud bellow, Darl ran at Lars, catching his outstretched arms and forcing them back. The two men stood, toe to toe, each pushing with all of his might. Lars ducked and twisted at the same time, crossing Darl’s wrists as he did so.

The Allunder also twisted, trying to prevent his elbow from locking, and at the same time, he brought his booted foot down hard on the side of Lars’ knee. Lars instinctively buckled, releasing his arm lock and saving his knee from serious damage. Kaplyn grimaced, but the big man swiftly recovered as he swung his elbow up hard, catching the other man under the chin, forcing him back. As he retreated, blood sprang from the corner of his mouth and he scowled angrily at Lars for the affront.

 “Finish him, Darl!” someone in the crowd urged. The big man took this as his cue and launched himself at Lars a second time.

 The collision nearly knocked Lars from his feet. He grabbed Darl’s arms, preventing him from encircling his waist.

 To the crowd the fight looked like a stalemate as the two men strained, slowly, however Lars forced Darl's arms back and the Allunder realised that he was in trouble. In desperation, he dropped to one knee and pivoted, throwing Lars’ body weight over his shoulder.

 He tried to catch Lars off balance, but Lars allowed himself to fall forward, maintaining a firm grip on the other man’s wrist. With a fluid grace he somersaulted across the other man's shoulder, wrenching his opponent's arm as he landed.

 Darl cried out in pain and nursed the injured limb. Lars rolled away from his opponent and quickly rose to a crouch, waiting for Darl's counter-attack. The other man was still recovering and seeing Lars waiting for him seemed only to infuriate him further.

 Screaming with rage he ran at his opponent and kicked high, aiming at Lars’ head, but Lars neatly caught his heel and ducked under the ill-timed blow. He in turn kicked out at Darl's standing leg while retaining his grip on the other, causing the big man to go down in an untidy heap with Lars on top of him.

 Lars was panting from the exertion and did not look like a champion wrestler. “Karlam, aid me!” he bellowed.

Darl however was face down and couldn’t see the look of pain the exertion cost Lars. Kaplyn grimaced; Lars was winning but marginally.

Straining, Lars forced Darl's left leg behind his right knee and then folded his right leg, trapping his left. Darl screamed.

“I submit!” he bellowed.

The referee leapt in and slapped Lars on the shoulder. “Fight’s over. Let go! Now! Before you break his leg.”

The crowd howled.

“Fix,” someone shouted. “Darl, you’ve cost me a week’s wages!” cried another.

Kaplyn did not wait to congratulate Lars but sought out the tout he had seen earlier, before the other man could escape. Kaplyn grinned, enjoying the tout’s discomfort as he claimed his winnings.

“Not sure I should pay out,” the tout muttered.

“Why?” Kaplyn growled.

The other man grimaced. “Well that Lars was not from these parts. He could be professional.”

“You were happy to take my money, so pay up,” Kaplyn countered, giving the tout an ominous look. It worked as the tout counted out a handful of silver calder.

Counting it himself, he made his way through the crowd towards Lars who was still sitting on the ground, gasping.

 Kaplyn smiled down. “Well done! It was a good fight,” he acknowledged, crouching down.

 Lars nodded, but said nothing between loud gasps for air. Kaplyn waited patiently for the big man to recover.

 “By Slathor! That was hell,” he managed finally, groaning as he did so and gripping the grass in pain.

 Kaplyn grinned at his discomfort. “Who is Slathor?” he asked.

Lars forced a smile. “He is one of my gods. We have many.”

“And Karlam?”

“God of war,” Lars managed.

When Lars was finally ready, Kaplyn helped him to his feet.

“If I had known that you Allunds liked to fight, I’d have found another country to be shipwrecked in. Five fights! It’s too much, there has to be an easier way to earn a living.”

 Lars shook his head as he started slowly towards the referee who was coming towards the pair with the big man's winnings.  “How much did you bet on yourself?” Kaplyn asked.

 Lars paled, shaking his head. “I didn’t save enough: the ale was too good. Still I’ll be able to sleep content tonight; at least now I can afford a room and lodgings,” he said holding the prize purse, clearly enjoying the weight of the coin within.

Kaplyn led them towards the archery range. There were more people now and the pavilions created funnel points, squeezing folk together. Someone bumped into Kaplyn and inadvertently his gaze fell upon a small, grey haired old woman standing a few yards away. Claws, disfigured by arthritis, clutched a shawl yellowed with age about her throat. She glared about the crowd, looking down a long thin nose speckled in warts.

When her gaze met his, her thin lips parted, her eyes widened and to Kaplyn the world seemed to slow. He tried to look away but the damage was done.

Her arm came up and she pointed at him. He tried to step backwards but the press of bodies trapped him. At first, he assumed she had recognised him and would alert the palace guard when they came this way, but that was unlikely he realised almost as soon as the thought popped into his head. By his side Lars stopped and behind them voices murmured.

“Old Kate’s going to make a prediction,” Kaplyn heard someone say.

As if on cue the old woman spoke in a low gravely voice, while still pointing directly at Kaplyn. “I see you.”  Her gaze seemed to penetrate Kaplyn’s very soul.

People stopped to listen and Kaplyn found himself at the centre of a ring of people. A hush fell upon the crowd.

“You would destroy us all!” she muttered, shaking her head. “The prophecy haunts you; beware lest you set in motion events that cannot be stopped. The Eldric are lost, never to be found.

“I see also the ghost by your side. Oh, he is not there yet — but he will be! I know his shape and his desire, and the gleam in his eye. Death he will bring to us all. You would summon dragons: a living plague to ravage the world.”

Around Kaplyn the crowd murmured and people cast him troubled looks.

“Superstition,” Kaplyn said, albeit softly. He was shaking and his brain refused to function.

“Kate often sees things,” a man behind Kaplyn said.

“Aye,” said another. “Like the flood last year when the cattle drowned.”

“Superstition is it!” Kate answered. “One day you will see the man I speak of. Think then upon my words. Beware the dragons, and befriend them to your cost.”

Kaplyn turned his back on the woman and forced himself into the crowd. Kate had fallen silent and it was clear that there was no more entertainment, so the mob parted to let him past. Some people followed as though expecting Kate’s premonition to come true immediately. Kaplyn looked over his shoulder, fortunately Kate wasn’t there.

The thought of the archery competition was furthermost from Kaplyn’s mind and instead he sought a quiet place behind a large tent where he sat down upon the ground. Lars joined him. Several people that had followed looked on from a distance but soon lost interest and went on their way.

“What was that about?” Lars asked.

“An old fraud, trying to enhance her reputation as a witch!” Kaplyn suggested, trembling and clearly shaken by the event.

“Dragons, though,” Lars said.

“There are no dragons. She was deranged, probably mad.” He complained.

Lars looked unconvinced. “Who are the Eldric?”

“Who were the Eldric,” Kaplyn corrected. “They came over the sea several hundred years ago,” Kaplyn said. “For a while they brought peace and even stopped some of the wars.”

“How did they accomplish that?” Lars asked.

 “I can see that I need to explain our history,” Kaplyn looked up to the sky. His heart was slowing and talking was helping to calm him.

“Trosgarth is a nation to the north. In the past they were constantly waging war with just about everyone. That was a time of petty kingdoms.

“When the Eldric arrived, they were much more advanced both culturally and militarily. They landed here, in Allund,” Kaplyn laughed. “That nearly started a war, but common sense prevailed and it was a good thing too. The balance of power shifted in favour of the Southern Kingdoms. Then I suppose that people became more interested in trade than fighting.”

“What happened next?” Lars asked.

“Peace lasted for many years but always Trosgarth resented the Eldric. Their weapons were far superior to anyone else’s; some were even supposed to have been magical.

“The peace ended when an Eldric Lord called Drachar sided with Trosgarth. Why he chose to do so, no one knows. The Eldric were reputedly powerful sorcerers and Drachar the most powerful of all. He was able to summon the most potent demons.”

A roar from a nearby crowd interrupted Kaplyn. Overhead a few birds raced from the din, their black forms in stark contrast to the white clouds that now filled the sky.

“Do you want to find the archery?” Lars asked.

Kaplyn shook his head. “Not now. It’s probably too late judging by the noise from the crowd. I’m happy to sit here for a while.”

“What happened to Drachar?” Lars asked. His eyes were wide. “Did he summon demons?”

Again, Kaplyn nodded. “There was a war later called the Krell Wars.”

“I’ve heard of krell. But what are they?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never seen one but they are meant to be half-demon, half-human. Drachar united the krell tribes and I think that was why Trosgarth sided with him. The war was decided in a battle at a place called DrummondCal. The Eldric, leading an army from the Southern Kingdoms, defeated Drachar, using sorcerers and summoning demons of their own. It was a devastating battle by all accounts.

“Drachar was killed but some say that his ghost was too powerful to be banished and it remained, seeking to rise again in the distant future.”

“And that’s the basis of the Prophecy the old woman spoke of?”

“Yes.”

Lars shifted uncomfortably and his frown suggested he wanted to ask more.

“Let’s find some food,” Kaplyn suggested.

“My treat,” Lars beamed back, patting his bulging purse. “What about the Prophecy first though?”

Kaplyn smiled. “The Prophecy is rather cryptic so don’t expect to understand it.” Kaplyn searched his memory before reciting it.

 

“When Tallin’s Crown once more does shine,

Drachar's shade will rise sublime,

Three Princes royal through time to sleep,

An appointment with destiny —three Kings to keep,

Trosgarth's arm across the land will reach,

Of war and famine —- his army to teach,

And one will stand to oppose his throne,

A King resurrected in his mountain home,

Of air, fire and water ¾ he will be born,

To aid the people ¾ when all else is forlorn.”

 

“I see what you mean about being cryptic. Any ideas what Tallin’s Crown is?”

Kaplyn shook his head. “No idea.”

 “And the Eldric? What became of them?”

Kaplyn frowned, the other man was insatiable, but his curiosity was understandable. The Eldric had always fascinated Kaplyn. “No one knows. There’s only ruins where their cities once stood.

“There are Eldric artefacts around, cooking utensils, the occasional sword and such, so there is no doubt they existed. But what became of them? It’s said they disappeared after the Krell Wars.”

“Disappeared,” Lars snorted. “An entire race! How can that be?”

“I know it sounds ludicrous…,” Kaplyn continued. “…and there are many rumours to their disappearance. People talk about seeing Eldric ghosts on pilgrimage to this place and that.”

“The old woman mentioned a ghost.”

“Aye, some people believe in a Shaol, or a guardian spirit. They’re supposed to watch over us, protecting and guiding us. I’m not sure if that is what she meant, but personally I still think she was deranged.”

“She was certainly spooky. Her eyes were strange, I can’t describe them. They seemed to stare inside you, if you know what I mean.”

Kaplyn shuddered. He did know what Lars meant. “Come, let’s get some food,” he said rising.

Lars continued to question Kaplyn as they walked. “What do you think became of the Eldric?”

They crossed a relatively crowd free area, aiming towards a tent from which came the smell of barbecued meat. Kaplyn’s mouth watered. “I think they were ashamed of the destruction caused by one of their own kind. Thousands perished in the Krell Wars and to make matters worse it is said that a demon takes a person’s soul when they die.”

Lars grimaced. “That’s horrible. But where did the Eldric go to?”

“I’ve no idea,” Kaplyn continued. They entered the tent and joined a queue of people. At the front, a diminutive plump woman was serving what looked like pork on a large slice of bread. Lars fell silent for a while. The two men arrived at the head of the queue and good to his word Lars paid.

They ate as they meandered between the tents. Kaplyn recognised a pennant flying over one particularly large tent. “Look…,” he said,  between mouthfuls, “…that’s where the karlot competition is being held. With any luck I may salvage something from today.” Fate so far had been unkind, having lost his horse and nearly killed by outlaws. Things had to improve. Together the two men made their way over to the tent. Kaplyn gave the official his name and paid his entry fee.

Kaplyn played and won three games of karlot and quickly, much to his surprise, found himself in the final. In this round he was pitted against a thin faced Hullender whose eyes sparkled in anticipation.

 Kaplyn guessed he was a merchant, judging by the rich cut of his clothing and numerous gold rings, which he twisted nervously. A hush descended over the watching crowd as they waited.

Kaplyn won the toss to start. Throughout the previous games, he had adopted standard openings. Now, facing his opponent in the final game, something prompted him to change tact. His opponent looked confused as Kaplyn slid the krell piece, in front of his kara-stone, forward two squares. Since there was a time limit he had to counter quickly and Kaplyn recognised his move as the dristal's gambit.

The pieces on the board represented mythical creatures and the dristal was a large bird of prey, which dwarves had ridden into battle in the final days of the Krell Wars. The move opened the opponent’s defence by attacking the chanth, a demon of considerable power. Kaplyn ignored the threat and continued to build up an attack on his adversary's sorcerer. In the ensuing moves Kaplyn managed to keep one piece ahead of his rival. When an opening presented itself he confidently took his challenger’s dwarf chieftain.

 The Hullender, sensing victory slipping from his grasp, altered the pattern of play. Kaplyn found the sudden attack across the front of the board difficult to counter, but fortune was with him. The Hullender had left his kara-stone vulnerable and swiftly Kaplyn took the piece with a krell. He sat back in relief while a look of pain crossed the Hullender’s face as he realised his fatal mistake. Finally, he smiled, admitting defeat and offering Kaplyn his hand. Kaplyn had won and his recompense was a far heavier purse than when he had arrived.