MATHIOR

I stare at my father’s funeral pyre, the flames of it growing higher by the moment. Songs rise into the night, my people singing up to the stars of my father’s deeds. Of the many bloody battles he fought and won. Of how he made the cyclops a kingdom to be feared. Of his conquest of Yshrem with its weakling king and neighboring Alassia, whose citizens threw down their arms the moment they heard the barbarian king had turned his eye their way. On and on, I hear songs of Alistair’s many feats—some not entirely true, but all glorious and praising of his name.

This is a time for fine words in his memory. This is a time to drink and praise him. In the morning, there will be kingdoms to govern and my people to lead, but tonight is for him. At least, that is how it should be. Already his advisors look to me with questions in their eyes.

And I am the one that must give them answers.

I rub at the scar over my eye, the symbol of my strength as a warrior. The day I sacrificed my eye to the god Aron of the Cleaver to prove that I did not need two eyes to be a brutal fighter. That a fierce Cyclopae warrior only needs partial sight to ruthlessly slaughter his enemies. It is a tradition as old as time amongst my people, and I submitted willingly. That was the day I became a man, but sometimes the scar itches, even though the eye there has been long gone these ten years.

I lower my eyepatch once more and cross my arms, deliberately staring into my father’s funeral pyre. I keep my gaze focused, daring the Yshremi ambassador who skulks at the edges of the celebration to come and demand answers.

I will give him answers at the tip of my spear if he does.

But the man has some brains. He gives me worried looks but does not disturb me as I pay tribute to my father. I celebrate with the others, raising my voice in song and lifting drinking horn after drinking horn in his name. I do not drink from all of them, but the revelers who celebrate my father’s life—warriors and widows alike—do not notice. All they know is that they must shout their joy of my father’s deeds to the heavens so the gods will hear them. Tomorrow will be a time for mourning, but not tonight.

The hours wear on, voices grow hoarse, and the fires grow dim. When the last of the flames have gone out and my father’s funeral celebration is complete, I am weary but pleased. My father has been sent to the gods with great honor.

Tired, I toss my furred cloak over my shoulders and leave behind the funereal fires, toward the largest tent in the encampment. Now it is my tent.

“A word, King Mathior,” I hear a voice whine from behind me.

I grit my teeth. I had hoped to wait until tomorrow to answer this. I know what he will ask. I know my answer. I have always known my answer. But I do not have the time or the patience to explain it to him or anyone else. Of course, a king should not have to explain…but warriors and diplomats are very different kinds of people. Diplomats insist on words for everything, even when I would rather shove a spear down their throats.

My father would laugh at my sourness. He would tease me and tell me that even the word-sparring is still a battle that a king must fight, and it must be approached as seriously as any battlefield combat. My throat aches and I feel a sad sense of longing that he is not here, that I must take the throne upon his death. I would give a thousand good horses if he could rule forever. I have always wanted to be king, of course, but never at his expense.

I turn and glare at the robed man who follows behind me, scrolls tucked under his arm. “The embers of my father’s funeral pyre yet burn,” I caution the ambassador. “Do you wish me to light a new fire for your funeral?”

“I know this is the wrong moment to approach,” the man continues, cringing. I have reluctant admiration for him, because he speaks even though he knows my displeasure. “King Mathior, one of your kingdoms is in the greatest of unrest—”

“Yshrem. I know of it.”

I know my father ignored it in the last few years for lands with better hunting and more glory. Yshrem is a placid place, of people who till fields instead of hunt game. Of people who cover themselves in layers upon layers of scratchy fabrics instead of soft furs, and love words instead of deeds. Of people who hide behind stone walls before their barbarian overlords. They were easy to conquer sixteen years ago, my father bragged.

I think of their lovely princess, she with the soft hands and the gentle eyes. Dark hair, a full mouth, and a steel-forged spirit. Halla. I have not forgotten her.

“Then you know that your father neglected his lands in the last few seasons,” the ambassador says bluntly. “Yshrem’s people feel abandoned. They are taxed and their wealth sent to the cyclops overlords but receive nothing but more burdens in return. There is not enough food, because it has all been sold to Adassia to pay taxes. There are riots in the capital, thieves and banditry upon every road and poachers in every forest. Your border overlords placed by your father grow careless and drunk with their power because he put no boundaries on them, and the people resent the fact that they steal everything from sheep to firstborn daughters and claim that it is their right as cyclopean emissaries.”

“Do they now?” I drawl, thinking vaguely of the men at the keeps that have been established as border lords. Not cyclops warriors. They have two eyes and little battle in their heart for all that they bend the knee for my people. They were chosen to act as ruling lords who remained in one place, as most Cyclopae tribes are nomadic. I vaguely remember a few of Yshrem’s lordlings who eagerly bowed their heads and were put in positions of power so long as they would raise no army against my father.

I knew Yshrem had been ignored. As my father’s mind grew distant and the disease took more of his health, he turned to the hunt and the old ways. It is not a bad thing to live in such a manner…but a conqueror must be aware of all his kingdoms or they will turn against him.

It sounds as if the lordlings have already begun so.

The man continues on, an urgent look on his thin face. “You are in danger of losing control of the kingdom, your majesty—”

“I am not anyone’s majesty,” I tell him. Such titles are another Yshremi custom I dislike intensely. I do not mind “king” because it is a word that translates no matter the tongue, but speaking of my “majesty” is foolishness. “Call me First Warrior if you prefer.”

“First Warrior,” the man continues smoothly, trotting behind me as I push back the flap and stride into my private tent. “Of course. But you must heed my words. If you wish to stop an uprising of the people, you must do something. As long as there is a princess of the old blood, there will never be rest. Even now, insurgents call her name in the streets and demand that Queen Halla be restored to her throne.”

Queen Halla.

Queen for an hour, perhaps. I smile at the thought of her. My memories are clouded by years that have passed, but I remember her braided hair, gleaming like chestnuts and her skin as pale as a winter sky. The pretty curve of her mouth. I remember how elegant she was, and how kind. How soft her hands, and how pink her lips.

She ruined me for all other women with a glimpse, and I was but a boy of eight.

“So the people make unreasonable demands. What would you have me do about that?” I ask absently, shrugging off my cloak as I near my pallet of furs. My mind is still full of Halla herself, her stiff posture and full skirts. I have dreamed of her for years, imagining laying her down in the furs of my bed and pushing those skirts up to explore what lies underneath.

One does not think such things about a princess, but that has never stopped me.

“I have a simple solution,” the ambassador says.

Things are never simple, but now I am intrigued. I push thoughts of the lovely princess away. “I am listening.”

“Send an assassin,” the man tells me bluntly. “Take care of the problem. If she is not alive, she cannot take the throne. She has no issue. The royal line of Yshrem dies with her. It is not a pleasant solution, but a neat one. A necessary one.” His voice is full of distaste, and it is clear to me that he doesn’t like what he suggests, but he can see no other way out.

Such is the life of a diplomat—offering terrible solutions to their king and hoping someone else will take the blame. I am not surprised that he has offered it. It is custom among many peoples to have rivals murdered and removed quietly. It is not the cyclopean way, for we prefer to meet on the battlefield and spill blood in the name of Aron of the Cleaver.

I am not surprised that he has suggested it…but I am surprised at the violent urge that rises inside me. Not to murder Halla—but to murder anyone that suggests such a thing.

She is mine.

She has always been mine.

She will always be mine.

I keep my expression calm and unbuckle my sword belt. It has been a long day and tomorrow will be busy as well. “No one will touch Princess Halla. I have another idea,” I tell him. It is an idea I have nurtured for many years in secret, one that I did not dream of pursuing while my father was alive. Now that he is gone and Yshrem is in chaos, the thought has been on my mind.

Daily. Hourly.

And who is here to tell me no? I am now First Warrior. My word is law. I can do as I like to rule my kingdoms.

“Your…er, First Warrior, I must beg you to heed me. Yshrem is a problem,” the man continues. “We must do something, and we must do it soon. A show of authority is needed, and quickly—”

“It is handled.” I remove my bracers, tugging at the leather ties.

“How?”

And I tell him.

When I am done explaining my beautifully simple plan, he stares at me in surprise. “You would do such a thing for your kingdom? For Yshrem and the Cyclops tribes both?”

I cannot help but smile. He thinks I do this for Yshrem? Amusing. I care nothing for Yshrem.

I do this for me, because I am now First Warrior. I am king.

And I get everything I want.