Chapter 2: The Fate of a Kingdom

A Chapter by Captain Rex

A council is held to decide whether or not Dorlas is ready to take up the throne.

Dorlas sat in a large circular room next to his mother. A large, circular ring of seats facing inward were filled with dwarves from Thardul, a single, tall lizardman, whose reptilian features made him the most noticeable creature in the room, and men from various duchies and Kingdoms, except from Rhineland. Celebrain rose and all fell silent.

“My lords, I bring grim news. My husband, King Aratan, is dead.”

There was suddenly a loud murmur of conversation, but this ceased immediately when Celebrain raised her hand.

“We now must decide who shall become the King of Centuria. My son Dorlas is his only heir.”

Dorlas rose and bowed before being seated.

“He cannot be King.” said a tall man with black hair.

“He has not married and is nearly beyond the age of wedlock.”

“He still has two years before he has to get married.” said another noble, this one older, and with a mane of grey hair. “But it’s not a rule that he has to be married to inherit the throne does it? Or did that change while I wasn’t looking.”

Thank you, Gregor. Thought Dorlas. Gregor winked at Dorlas, and he knew that his uncle would stand by him.

“Never mind that he is unproven.” said a third nobleman.

“Then let me test him.” said the Lizardman “I am the finest swordsman my race has produced.”

“But that wouldn’t solve anything.” said a dwarf with a heavy accent “Why not just give him the sodding Kingdom. If he’s Aratan’s heir, then he inherits the throne.”

“In Dwarven kingdoms yes but not in Centuria. Our customs do not allow it.” said the black haired nobleman.

“And is it also the custom of your people to fight amongst your selves until the enemy is on your doorstep?” the dwarf questioned. “We dwarves have seen more than our fair share of fightin’, we’re still trying to drive the b******s back. A man like him is just what this place needs.”

“So you claim. Your people are always drabbling about sending armies forth to combat menaces on your borders. Why then was it during the Dragon War, during the Corsair Invasions, during the rising of the Varangians that every time aid was asked from the dwarves, none came? Were you too busy getting drunk in your halls?” the dark haired noble challenged.

“Look me in the eyes and tell me that.” the dwarf grumbled “Would you send away you’re only defence. Would you take the lock on your door away because someone fighting a distant war needs it for his door? For you the shadow approaches but for us, the shadow is already there...”

“Will you shut up and listen to yourselves!”

The members turned to face a tall, silver-haired elf, a look of malice and disgust on his face. Dorlas wasn’t sure when this elf had arrived, for he did not see him at the start of the council.

“All of you. Take a look at yourselves for goodness sake. King, no king. That doesn’t make a nation. A group of people united together as one is a nation. What I am seeing here is anything but united.”

He turned to face the human members, specifically the Centurions. “And you wonder why the dwarves won’t help you. The moment your leader disappears you flail around like your head has been cut off. This man clearly isn’t Aratan, but what did you expect, a man like him comes once in an age. What would Aratan say if he saw his finest lords bickering like dogs after scraps off their master’s table?”

The room went silent. Dorlas was fixated on this elf.

Celebrain spoke again.

“Tyrion is right. This bickering gets us nowhere. The council will have a brief interlude before continuing.”

The members rose from their seats and some went off to their quarters, some to the gardens, but others remained in the room, talking amongst themselves.

Gregor walked over towards Dorlas and Celebrain.

“Quite a rousing speech wasn’t it? Those elves know how to manipulate the common tongue don’t they?” he said, gesturing at the high elf.

“Who is he anyway?” Dorlas asked.

“His name is Tyrion and he was your father’s closest friend during the Dragon War.” Celebrain answered.

“And a good warrior too. It was said only your father and the King of the Elves could beat him in a fight. Even then, Aratan got a good flogging before he could beat him, if he beat him.” Gregor added.

“I think I will talk to him.” Dorlas said. “He seems like he’d support me.”

“That would not be wise.” Celebrain advised.

“Um, yes. I wouldn’t.” Gregor said “the last person he’ll want to see is another Centurion.”

“Well, if we’re going to be friends I have to start somewhere don’t I?” Dorlas said, as he strode toward Tyrion.

“Tyrion.” he called “Might I have a word?”

The elf turned his head very slowly, a look of annoyance etched onto his face.

“Greetings, I believe we have not been formally introduced. I am...”

“Aratan’s young pup.” the elf finished in a gruff tone that was distinctly un-elf like.

“Uh, that’s one way of putting it I suppose.” Dorlas stumbled “I would like to offer you my friendship. As a future king, I hope that...”

“You are not my king. Aratan was, and if you had any shred of respect you will remember that.”

Dorlas was taken aback by this.

“I had my own king; one whom you father looked to for guidance. And my king is not you, nor your father. I called him my king because I had that much respect for him. Now leave me, your constant talk is doing me in.”

Tyrion walked away, muttering in elvish to himself as he went. Dorlas returned to his mother and his uncle.

“My father was friends with that?” he asked.

“Oh, well, he was like a brother to him. Naturally he’ll be grieving.” Gregor said.

“It goes deeper than that.” Celebrain said “He has to perform the duty of two sons now.”

“What do you mean?” Dorlas asked.

“The high elves have few strongholds left here in Medion. They mostly reside in the Undying Isles these days. He is in command of those strongholds. He had his brother to help him before.”

“He has a brother?” Dorlas interrupted.

“No, he had a brother. A twin actually. However, during the age of strife...”

Dorlas understood immediately.

“So, he has no one to help him?”

“He has his two younger siblings, but they have different charges.”

Celebrain looked over at Tyrion, a look of sorrow on her face. Dorlas followed her gaze. Tyrion stood out on the balcony, the harsh winter air rippling through his fine, silvery hair. He gazed into the clouds, as though turning to them for strength and guidance.

“You must understand Dorlas. He has the duty of two sons now. For himself and the one who will never return.”

Dorlas continued to stare at the elf, as though seeing him in a new light. No longer did he seem proud and powerful, but sorrowful, and old.

“Dorlas? Go and do what you feel is necessary, your time is your own. The council can deliberate without you for the moment.” Gregor insisted.

“Good idea.” Dorlas agreed. He strode out of the hall, keeping his gaze firmly fixed on Tyrion, until he was out of the doors and out of sight.

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