CHAPTER THIRTEEN #2
Lord Garrick, the host, paced by the hearth, his ire fuelled by the feeling that his families and his own efforts and sacrifices were now largely forgotten or at least under appreciated by the "shepherd king.
Lord Varis clutched his goblet, his house's declining fortunes pushing him to desperate alliances.
Other barons, captains, and merchants rounded out the group—some fully complicit, others swayed by fears of instability, bound by the promise of a new order.
The remaining few were loyal to the king, but had been selected for their loose tongues and/or the influence and respect they wielded in areas of the kingdom where Lord Aldrich held little sway.
Conversation hushed as Proudlock entered, his boots echoing on the flagstones, Skarn and Garr flanking him like grim sentinels.
Aldrich rose, his expression a perfect mask of anxious anticipation, his hands clasped as if in prayer.
“Lieutenant Proudlock, you’ve come at last. Rumors fly like ravens—tell us it’s not true,” he said, his voice rich with feigned concern, eyes glinting with the knowledge of the script they played.
Proudlock bowed deeply, his face a study in manufactured grief.
“My lords, ladies... I wish it were lies.” He approached the table, unwrapping the bundle with trembling hands—a touch of drama to sell the moment.
The cloak unfurled first, its bloodstains stark against the druidic fabric, runes crusted with gore that flaked onto the table like grim ash.
Gasps echoed; a lady in green silks covered her mouth, her eyes wide with horror.
Next, the pack, torn and muddied, maps of the northern wastes peeking from a ripped seam.
The broken dagger sheath, notched as if by monstrous claws.
Finally, the amulet, its chain snapped, the MacGil crest gleaming accusingly in the candlelight.
Aldrich’s eyes widened, his hand reaching out to touch the cloak, fingers lingering on the bloodied hem. “By the gods... this is Thorgrin’s. The blood—so much.” His voice trembled, a masterful performance. “What happened, man? Spare no detail.”
Proudlock launched into the fabricated narrative, his voice steady but dripping with sorrow, honed over hours of rehearsal.
“We rode north to investigate the breaches, as the king commanded. The wastes were treacherous—tremors shook the ground, cracks spewing foul mists that burned the lungs. In a narrow gorge, they struck: beasts unlike any I’ve seen, rock hides, venom claws, eyes like coals.
Dozens, swarming from shadows. The king led the charge, his magnificent sword blazing, cutting them down.
Reece and Erec fought beside him, Alistair’s magic blasting waves of attackers.
But they kept coming, endless, their roars shaking the cliffs. ”
He paused, feigning a choke in his throat, eyes downcast. “I saw the king take a claw to the side, blood flowing, but he pressed on, shouting for us to hold the line. Another strike to the thigh, then arrows—venom-tipped, sizzling as they struck. He fell, shouting for us to flee, to warn the Ring. We tried to save him, but the horde dragged him into the storm. These... these are all that remain.”
The room erupted in chaos. A baron slammed his fist on the table, goblet toppling.
“We thought the king indestructible! After all he had endured and overcome, to be slain by beasts in his own kingdom…” Captains muttered of bolstered defenses, advisors scribbled notes, quills scratching furiously.
Lady Elowen leaned forward, her voice silky but sharp.
“The Shield fails, and now this. Treachery from beyond? Or something closer?”
Aldrich staggered, clutching his chest as if stricken, his face a portrait of anguish.
“Thorgrin... our mighty king, felled by monsters? He who slew the Blood Lord, restored peace? This cannot be!” His voice rose in a wail, tears welling—crocodile tears, but so convincing that even Proudlock felt a flicker of admiration.
Aldrich lifted the cloak high, letting blood flakes fall like grim confetti, the fabric billowing like a shroud.
“Look upon this! His lifeblood, spilled for us. The realm weeps!”
The emotional tide swelled, sweeping the room.
Varis wept openly, tears streaking his flushed cheeks.
Garrick roared, “Vengeance for the king!” his fist pounding the table, rattling plates.
Holt nodded solemnly as he calculated gains in the power vacuum.
Aldrich let the grief linger, pacing before the hearth, his silhouette looming in the firelight.
Then, his voice firming, he seized the moment.
“We mourn, but the Ring endures. Breaches multiply, beasts roam. Who will protect our people in this dark hour?”
He turned, orchestrating like a conductor before a silent orchestra. “We, the noble houses, built this kingdom’s foundations. House Aldrich pledges grain stores for armies, enough to feed a thousand men through winter. Elowen, your scouts?”
“Deployed to every border,” she affirmed, her smile cold.
“Holt, supplies?”
“My caravans stand ready, laden with steel and provisions.”
“Garrick, forts?”
“Manned and armed, walls reinforced.”
“Varis?”
“My men will rally, swords sharpened.”
Aldrich nodded, his eyes gleaming with purpose. “Then we form a Council of Protectors. I’ll chair, coordinating defenses. Not to rule, but to safeguard until the crown stabilizes. Proudlock, you’ll advise us militarily, your experience invaluable.”
Agreements murmured through the room, plans unfolding like a map: patrols reinforced, borders sealed, messengers dispatched to spread word of the nobles’ “protection.” Propaganda would calm the masses, elevating the houses as saviors.
Scrolls were prepared: “King fallen heroically; nobles rise to defend.” Proudlock was tasked with delivering the cloak to a public display, a grim relic to cement the tale.
“But first,” he said, seemingly having trouble to keep his voice from breaking with grief, I must go to the Queen. She would want to see this with her eyes, though I know it will cut her to the depths of her heart more than it even does us.”
As the meeting adjourned, riders galloped into the night, their horses’ hooves drumming a rhythm of urgency.
By morning, criers in King’s Court’s market square proclaimed the tragedy.
A throng gathered, faces ashen under the gray dawn.
“King Thorgrin dead!” the crier bellowed, holding a replica cloak aloft, its bloodstains staged for effect.
Women sobbed, clutching shawls; men vowed revenge, fists raised.
Children clung to parents, whispering of monsters beyond the Shield that could kill he who they thought could not be slain.
In taverns, bards sang laments, their strings plucked with coin from noble purses, lyrics praising the houses’ vigilance.
“In darkest hour, Aldrich stands tall, Elowen’s eyes guard us all.
..” Villages along the canyon barred gates, messengers spreading the call: “Council protects; send aid to lords.” In southern outposts, knights sharpened blades, rumors fueling loyalty shifts toward the nobles’ banner.
From his balcony overlooking his lands, Aldrich imagined the chaos that was stirring across the Ring.
The revelation would have struck like lightning, emotion forging unity under their control.
The Ring was theirs to shape, a kingdom ripe for their ambition, its people unaware of the strings pulled in the shadows.