The Chronicle Of Eboracum III...

Part Three – The War Council

Benedik reached the Borderlands safely and promptly. The Guardian’s unearthly coaxing had created a mount faster and more agile than he had owned previously. The slightest shift in his hold on the reins had them dipping and twisting as gracefully as dancers. The journey had also given him ample opportunity to consider how to proceed. The Guardian had not informed him of how exactly he was meant to convince the War Council of his identity or authority. Equally he was not certain in himself that he wanted to reclaim the throne of Eboracum. Returning to liberate his people presented the chance to make amends for any previous failure. He was the veteran of several battles so he could trust his well-honed body to fight until the last breath. It was his ability to rule, however, that had yet to be tested.

Upon arrival Benedik made a stealthy reconnaissance of the allied encampment. Morale was high amongst the soldiers as news had travelled that the kingdom of Costica had overthrown its Wallachian leaders. Hope blossomed that the other western kingdoms would follow, toppling incrementally until the empire was fully destroyed. Benedik’s own hopes, however, were cautious in this respect. Costica was merely a small, outlying kingdom. It would be much harder to remove Wallachian influence from its immediate neighbours such as Eboracum.

His investigations had also identified where the Lords were gathering for the Council and it proved surprisingly easy to infiltrate the grand tent. For a moment, in his dark attire, Benedik became merely a watchful shadow. The table, a huge circular arc, spanned most of the circumference of the tent. Around it the Lords were arranged by kingdom. Most of them were old with their beards full of grey and their eyes pale and rheumy. These men would have argued and debated with his father. The Lords had been the counsellors and advisors to the rulers of the west for centuries. They sat now, slumped over their chairs, fatigue and disappointment carved into every stooped and crooked bone. Scattered amongst this older generation were their sons. Their grip was strong on their weapons and their fists heavy on the table as they sounded their discord. Servants quietly poured wine into goblets in the background. Many had already been knocked askew by impassioned arms, their contents spilt and dripping to the rug-covered floor.

Disagreement was clearly rife in this tented War Council. Usually a king would preside over a council, standing in the space where the table didn’t quite meet. The table symbolised a balance that had to be reached between equality and leadership. Benedik could remember his father overseeing such a council, firmly decisive and even-handed. The Guardian had been right again, the Lords needed a symbol of authority to unite behind. It seemed that this was the role he was required to fulfil despite his own inner uncertainty.

Letting instinct guide him, Benedik began to sing. The low deep humming filtered furtively through the room until it had disrupted and silenced all discussion. It was a song that his father had sung once, and he had not realised until that moment that he was able to remember the words. Before the song’s end other voices had joined his to recite the story of heroic valour and courage. In the quiet that followed Benedik moved to stand in the gap between the edges of the table. His tall figure filled the space and cast a long shadow. The significance of his position was not lost on the Lords, and they awaited his speech with suspiciously narrowed eyes.

“My name is Benedik, son of Huwon and heir to the throne of Eboracum. I stand before this Council to offer my sword to your fight against the Wallachian tyrant.” It was, perhaps, not the most eloquent of introductions, but it was forceful in its simplicity. Several of the Lords began to speak at once, their cries of protest and scepticism interrupting one another.

“You don’t look like a prince to me.” –

“Look at his clothes, he’s nothing more than a common thief.” –

“You sully the name of that great man with your lies.” –

The condemnations clashed loudly in his ears, but he did not refute them. The truth was he did still look like the Nomad, who had been a thief and a liar. His hair was braided, the long length tied back in the eastern fashion. The clothes he wore were still torn from the pard’s claws, rough linen adhering to the wounds with the stickiness of dried blood. Traversing the world in a sennight had, after all, given him little opportunity to alter his appearance. Pulling the cord that lay hidden under his clothing, he unveiled the one object that might prove his identity to the Council. The metal was warm to his touch, heated by its proximity to his skin.

“Lord Tobin.” Despite the noise within the great tent, Benedik spoke with a quiet authority that ensured he was heard by all.”You were advisor to my father and lived for many years with our family. Tell me, is this not his sigil?” He tossed the old man the gold ring as carelessly as if it were a crumb of bread.

“It is.” Tobin croaked amazed. “It really is.”

“That proves nothing.” The younger man seated beside him snatched the bauble away. “Any thief could take this and claim it as his own.” Ignoring the disparaging comments Tobin stood and walked towards Benedik. Every move was a slow, agonized shuffle and when they were finally facing one another the old man wheezed from the exertion. Their eyes met and held, searching and assessing for what truths they could perceive. Beneath the tanned and scarred skin, the uneven growth of facial hair, the Lord could recognise the acute intelligence in the azure eyes that he had once seen in a young prince. Tobin embraced the man with all the affection he had once felt for the questioning child.

“Praise the Guardian.” He breathed, his voice thick with emotion. Benedik found himself equally overwhelmed by the acceptance and frail hold of an old friend. “If only your father were here to see you now.”

“If my father were here now I know what he would say.” He turned to address the assembled Council, concealing the keen slice of anxiety that followed any thoughts of King Huwon. “You can tell yourselves that we have a choice. That we can choose to wait for Wallachia to destroy itself or to give support to insurrections in remote kingdoms. But he would realise that there is no choice. We have to fight.”

“We cannot hope to match Wallachian forces. We could be annihilated in a single battle. It would be wiser to wait and consolidate our resources.” It was the same man who offered the criticism, yet it was clear from the series of nods around the table that he spoke for a larger faction of the Lords.

“There is a plant in the east known as the sheep-eater. It has thick thorny leaves low to the ground. The slower animals get caught on these leaves and, unable to escape, they die a slow death. Their decomposing bodies nourish the plant so that it grows stronger and more deadly.” He began to speak with increasing fervency as he outlined his plan. “If we wait, we will end up like those animals. Encouraging the other kingdoms to rebel will take time, during which the boy-child will grow into a man. Any resources that we might have consolidated through waiting would simply end up feeding a stronger Wallachian Empire. The time to act is now, whilst they are unprepared and unsuspecting. Sever the plant at the root rather than trying to pluck its leaves.” Gesturing fiercely towards the map painted on the finest silken cloth and hung on the far side of the tent he indicated a point close to Wallachia. “Strike here and strike quickly. It is our only hope to end this.” Breathing heavily Benedik turned to the supportive presence of Lord Tobin beside him. “I don’t know how to be a king like my father, but I do know how to be a solider. I can win this battle for you.”