After Balthazars speech, the crowd is cheering, inspired by divine zeal. They do know of the bloody events in the castle. They won’t know for some time.
The roar of the crowd reaches even up to the top of the cliff. A messy sea of cheering faces and flailing arms blots Solemnity like a patch of mould.
Then the sound stops, the crowd frozen perfectly. Balthazar looks towards his companions, but finds them frozen as well. High Priest Oland, his hand still resting on Balthazars shoulder, blinks, and his eyes fill with white light. He speaks with the voice of an angel. Balthazars patron.
“You have done so very well, Balthazar. We have been watching, of course, and we could not be more proud of your progress. But your task is incomplete. Now, you face your final challenge. But before that, we are going to play another game.”
A divine questionaire follows, each question that was once obscure and shrouded in mystery now clearer, though not perfectly so. There are still mysteries and riddles that Balthazar cannot find the answer to. The truth twists on its way from heaven to earth. As they converse, the eyes of the people of Solemnity keep score, alighting with white light or dimming to black shadows.
While the angels play, something inside Friend glimmers. Sparks. On the very edge of consciousness, he perceives some of the conversation frozen in time. Not entirely aware of his own doing, he steps forward and barks to Balthazar.
“Brother! I am here! Command me as you always did!”
His presence seems to surprise even Balthazars patron, who completes the game. This time, a draw.Time is returned to the castle garden. When Balthazar looks upon High Priest Oland, he now sees a frail, mortal man. His conversation with the divine has put some things in perspective. Oland smiles in a way that repulses Balthazar. He seems almost gleeful. That mortal sense of pride and greed for the throne.
Oland and Balthazar descend from the wall, and Oland begins speaking about future plans. Balthazar is not the only one who has noticed Oland’s urgency to take the throne. Friend steps forward and brandishes The Whispering Greatsword.
“You have spoiled the plan with your bloodlust, Oland. I carry out the sentence of the true ruler of Orthos.”
Before Oland can protest, Friend raises the sword and severs his head from his body.
Priest Tolithea, the elderly wheelchairbound priest, reels. Where before he was amicable to Balthazars doings, now he is fearful.
“Shall he be next, my king?” Friend inquires.
Balthazar shakes his head, frustrated. No one was supposed to die.
“The arms of law will not stand for this, Balthazar. Remember, you need us!” Tolithea’s pleads using a threat.
A tense moment passes. Balthazar breaks it.
“Stop, we must return to the council chamber. We will discuss this.”
The council chamber is now devoid of dead nobles. The remaining heads of the noble houses wait patiently in fear or curiosity. Balthazar is not so brazen as to sit in the throne, but he stands at the head of the room. He decrees that the time for bloodshed is over, and Orthos has been dealt a solid blow. A new council must be put together, one without the weaknesses of the queen.
Amecouth quivers with rage. He protests. Beneath his rage is a look of great sorrow. Failure to serve his country.
“I serve the monarch of Orthos. Not usurpers.” he turns to leave. Guards block the door instinctively. Amecouth looks toward Balthazar with contempt.
“Are you going to kill me as well?”
Balthazar sighs. “I haven’t killed anyone.” he regards the room, “Know that any of you are free to leave, if you do not wish to take part in deciding Orthos’ future.”
Amecouth turns now, angry. “Since you are so determined to be ruler, Balthazar, here is a lesson. On the kings orders might any act in his presence be stopped, therefore it is the king who is responsible for the actions of his subjects.”
“I am aware, Baron. Inaction is the very reason the queen had to be replaced. Do not think for a moment that I do not regret what has happened.” It’s the closest the baron will get to an apology.
“The people of Qui Pascolo will never serve you.”
Balthazars words have inspired some of the more cut-throat house heads, but there remains one important dissenter. Priest Tolithea, last remaining priest of The Lawful Council, blubbers something about the arms of law. He threatens to withhold his men, one of the key drivers of Balthazars decision to ally with the council. It is Monkey that steps in.
“You are priests of the divine. Well!? The divine has shown himself, and he has acted. Who are you to doubt his actions, because of mortal fear? Remember your place”. The words shock Tolithea into silence (Monkey rolled a 20) then pushes himself out of his chair onto his failing legs, bending his frail form into prayer.
“Of course, we will serve. I will serve.”
And with that, Balthazar seizes control of Orthos. A small meeting to determine new council members is held, and it is decided that Amaratos of Emerald Fronds, Baronness Visthilian-Avia-Damanti, Lord Ron-Zoshk-Laquor, Icorial Barzelous of the Orthosian Trade and Industry Association, and Priest Tolithea will form the new council to The Divine King of Orthos.
Balthazar wastes no time. He immedaitely orders General Laquor to take stock of the army. They consult maps, and devise a plan to raise a levy, finding every able bodies man they can to form an army to march on Nildazi. Against Laquors instincts, Balthazar sends a contingent of men to reinforce Fort Duvno, in the hopes that Amecouth will prize pragmatism over old loyalties.
When The Friends leave the castle to prepare for the assault on the dragon, Monkey accompanies Amaratos back to his villa in Ove Altura. They meet in Amaratos’ parlour.
Amaratos smiles wide. “So it has come to pass. I do not suppose you have come to accept my offer, eh Monkey?”
“Of course not. But I do come to make one of my own. You know I am close to the new king, but I am Ajira-ni, and not blind to the ills our people have suffered in this place. I would work with you to ensure Ajira and Orthos remain allies.”
“The pharaoh will not be happy with the death of Yanapo Iteikahn. No matter how distant, he has a duty to his family. But I do believe our pharaoh can be a touch… sensitive. I belive his son has taken quite an interest in Orthosian religion too. It does not bode well.”
“The pharaohs offence only serves to legitimize Orthosian religion, does it not?”
Amaratos chuckles and reaches for a glass-stoppered bottle of liquor. “Your king seems to believe he is an angel, and he is most convincing. As we both know, our pharaoh is a true god, above angels. But if you ask me, it would be hard to tell either of them apart from normal men.”
Monkey recognises Amartos’ words as highly treasonous toward the pharaoh. Lightly treasonous towards Balthazar, not that he would care. Monkey wonders if the pharaoh would care. He wonders where Amaratos’ loyalties lie.
Amaratos looks up from the drinks he is pouring. The sound of liquid hitting glass stops as he studies Monkey for a moment.
“Correct me if I am mistaken, but you are gifted in the psionic arts, are you not?”
Monkey nods.
“You know, I am no stranger to them myself. No ability, of course,” he lies, “but I have had a fascination in them since I was a boy.” he chuckles again, “If only he knew he would find a potential ally in such a powerful one.”
Monkey blinks. “Potential?”
“Why yes, I make no assumption you would want to help me, for it comes with certain conditions.”
Monkey grows suspicious. “I am open to your conditions, Amaratos. We are countrymen, after all. My loyalty to the king is great,” he takes a risk, “but not all encompassing.”
Amaratos smiles wide. That was exactly what he wanted to hear. He hands Monkey his drink. “There is yet more to be done in Orthos when the business with the divine king is finished. I would request you stay near him and keep an eye on his movements. I have great plans for this city. Great plans for Ajira.” Amaratos’ smile is greedy now.
“There is something I would like you to have, consider it a gift.” a servant brings forward a garment of brown leather and long flowing turquoise and megenta silks. A headband with a large peacock feathre accompanies the garb. “This is the armor of the famed psionicist Azkumenchani, once a vizier to the pharaoh. It holds great power, or so I was told by the merchant who sold it to me.”
Monkey takes the garb and equips it. He feels an acuity in the clothing, a mental resonance with crystal threads inlaid into the silk.
“Thank you, Amaratos. To our enduring partnership.”
Amaratos smiles, and drinks.
One week later, over 500 men stand in formation before Castle Solemnity. At their helm, Balthazar rides a great stallion. Behind him are the remaining Friends of Orthos. Their procession marches through the streets, being cheered and waved to by hoards of greatful civilians. The spectacle of the war march takes a meandering path through the city to the southeastern gate and onto the road heading towards Nildazi. Far in the distance, over the horizon, the Baron of Nildazi calculates, trying desperately to find a way to weasel victory from the tense position the king has placed him in. And further, in the ancient volcano called Sadrigal, Sanarm awaits.