Serpent's Strike (The Chronicles of Adalmearc Book 2), page 59
“I lend it to Lord Hardmar of House Hardling,” the jarl of Ingmond spoke before he turned to send a malicious glance towards Brand. The latter ignored the stare sent his way.
“Does any of the margraves in the province of Ingmond lend their voice differently?” Quill asked. There was silence; none did so. “Lord Valerian, to whom do you lend your voice?”
“To Lord Hardmar of House Hardling,” Valerian spoke.
“What name did he say?” Septimus asked up on the balcony while Quill continued to enquire if the margraves of Vale spoke otherwise. The aged priest was leaning over the railing precariously, straining his ears to no avail.
“Lord Hardmar,” Egil spoke softly by his side.
“Then it is all but decided,” Septimus mumbled. “Twenty-nine voices in his favour. The jarl Theodstan alone or the southern landgraves collectively may make it a majority.”
In the hall, Quill had moved on to the third and remaining jarl. “Lord Theodoric, to whom do you lend your voice?”
Theodoric took a step forward. His eyes turned around the hall from the other jarls to Hardmar and Brand. Finally, he spoke. “I lend my voice to Lord Hardmar of House Hardling.”
Agitation rippled through the assembly. It was decided. “What?” a voice barked from the back of the gathered noblemen.
“Order, please,” Quill called out. “Does any margrave of Theodstan speak otherwise?”
“I do!” Richard roared as he stepped forward and into the middle of the hall. He was also the source of the outburst a moment ago. “By Hel and all her curse, I speak otherwise! What cowardice is this? Are you spineless children all?”
“Lord Alwood,” Quill tried to speak in a calming voice to little effect.
“In this room stands one man who made this possible!” Richard yelled, shaking his finger at Brand. “If not for this brave lad, you would all be cowering at Isarn’s feet. Or worse, your heads would adorn a pretty spike,” he spat, glaring at Valerian and Konstans. “How dare you! How dare you disrespect all we achieved,” Richard growled. “In impossible circumstances, we won this war, and it was his doing!” As he shouted the last sentence, he once again pointed at Brand.
“Lord Alwood, you may have a chance to speak your mind after the counting, should it not reach a conclusion,” Quill attempted to argue.
“I am not a fool!” Richard exclaimed. “I can count as well as any man here. It has been decided. There will be no chance to speak. You, a bunch of womenfolk disguised like men, have given the realms to a boy,” he uttered with contempt.
“While your defence of your comrade is admirable,” Konstans spoke with a silken voice, “it seems misguided. The Order was under your command, Sir Richard. Do not reduce your own involvement in bringing this war to a swift conclusion.”
As Konstans spoke, Richard glared at him. “You were there, Lord Konstans. You know as well as I that the victor of this war is named Adalbrand.”
“I think you give too much credit to a squire,” Konstans said with a chuckle. “While nobody denies that the Order and all its men, knights, squires, soldiers, are invaluable to the safety of the realm, it does not bear upon our decision today. The banners upon the field at the battle of Cudrican were the banners of House Hardling. It is only sensible that the Adalthing rewards the kingship to the man who brought us the soldiers necessary for victory,” the nobleman argued.
Richard narrowed his eyes and gazed at Konstans with malice. “What a snake you are,” the knight growled. There was silence after this insult was uttered; finally, Richard turned and left the hall at a furious pace. It took a little while for Quill to compose himself and revive from his stupor; finally, he continued with the counting of voices, though it was only a formality.
Accompanied by applause, Hardmar stepped forward with a great smile and knelt by the statue of Disfara that stood in the centre of the hall. Quill approached him and placed a hand on his shoulder.
“Lord Hardmar of House Hardling, I confirm that the Adalthing has spoken with one voice and declared you heir to the realms. In seven days’ time, go to the Temple,” Quill instructed him. “There, before the altar of the Alfather, you shall kneel and receive the blessing of Sigvard. May you rule with the justice and wisdom that he did. For when the time comes, you shall be crowned upon the steps of the Temple in sight of the entire realm,” Quill continued, almost chanting, “that all may see and know you are the Dragon of Adalrik. When you rise, you rise as High King of Adalmearc, and never again shall you kneel before any man.”
Hardmar bowed his head in acceptance of these words; he rose and turned towards the assembled noblemen, receiving their praise and admiration.
The Adalthing continued for a while longer; since Hardmar was not of age, he would have to wait until he turned twenty-one to be crowned. In the meantime, a lord protector would be chosen to rule the realm. There was little surprise when Valerian was chosen; with Isenhart and most of the North absent, there was nobody to challenge the jarl of Vale. As his dragonlord, he named his brother, Konstans. Some remarked on how the jarl of Isarn had started a war to make himself king, and the only result had been that his rival now ruled the realm, at least for the next four years until Hardmar would be crowned king. Others held their tongue and simply applauded.
Brand left the hall as soon as the mantle of lord protector had been given to Valerian. Walking through the corridors, he passed many servants, busy tending to their duties; seeing his clenched jaw, all of them stayed out of his path. At length, he reached the desolate throne room. Brand entered from one of the smaller doors to the side, but he walked down to the main entrance and then approached the throne from that angle as it was intended. The hall itself was huge, the largest in the Citadel. Pillars rose taller than trees, making those entering feel diminutive. At the far end stood the seat of power, the Dragon Throne, raised upon many steps so that one would have to look up to gaze at the king.
The throne was empty, of course, and had been for months. It was an artistic marvel crafted by the greatest artisans of its age many centuries ago. Not as old as the Dragon Crown, which was claimed to have been worn by Sigvard himself. Like so much else, the throne had been crafted for Arn. His war to unite the realms had brought enormous wealth to Middanhal, and despite his many building projects, there had been enough gold to make a throne worthy of a high king.
It was, naturally, shaped in the likeness of a drake, making full use of this theme and giving the seat its popular name. The armrests were the powerful legs and claws of a golden dragon; behind the person seated, the wings of this creature spread upwards. Where the king’s head would rest, the jaws of the beast opened to reveal its teeth. It appeared as if it would devour any who dared to sit upon the throne, a warning to any who would usurp the rightful seat of the king.
Brand approached the throne until he could reach out his hand and touch the gold of the armrest. His finger traced each of the claws with a pensive look while his other hand played with the woven leather string around his neck. Brand’s lips parted as if he desired to speak, to address the inanimate object in front of him, but whatever his thoughts, they were interrupted by a loud voice.
“Brand,” Richard called out.
“How did you know I was here?” the squire asked.
“Some servants saw you enter. I wanted to talk with you,” the knight muttered.
“As always, I listen,” Brand said with a vague smile.
Richard cleared his throat. “Egnil’s balls, what feckless worms they are!” it burst from him. “Every man in that hall, cowards and crows to the last. How dare they demean what you and I did? How can they not see you deserved this honour?”
“It is not a question of justice but of politics.” Brand gave a slight shrug. “By supporting Lord Hardmar, the jarl of Vale will now have several years as lord protector. It was a cunning move.”
“But the rest of them,” Richard argued. “Gods, man, even Theodoric fell to heel. He, above all, should know your capabilities.”
“Do not be harsh on him,” Brand told the knight. “It would have been decided this way regardless. In this manner, he at least showed himself a friend to our new masters.”
“I would much rather show myself a friend to you,” Richard said gruffly. “You have deserved my respect.”
“I thank you for it,” Brand gave a smile, “though I fear it may have made our new prince and the lord protector look at us both with ill-favoured eyes.”
“I did not think of that,” Richard muttered, sounding a little regretful after all.
“No matter,” Brand shook his head. “They would have done so regardless, I imagine. The only thought in my mind is that I should desire to take my vows as a knight. I have spoken with the Master of the Citadel, and I may proceed holding my vigil this very night.”
“Of course, I congratulate you!” Richard exclaimed. “It is well earned. Who shall accompany you?”
“Normally, it should be Athelstan, but he is occupied,” Brand remarked with dry humour. “I would be pleased if you would, Sir Richard.”
“It would be my honour,” Richard declared.
“Good,” Brand smiled. “Tonight at the eastern shrine.” With that arranged, they parted.
Inside their quarters, the siblings of Theodstan reunited after the Adalthing. Theodoric poured himself a goblet of wine without delay while Theodwyn sat down. With his four-fingered hand, Theodoric grasped the cup tightly before he finally drank from it.
“That went as expected,” Theodwyn finally spoke.
“No other way it could have gone,” Theodoric said with a slightly unsteady voice. “I practically handed it to Valerian and his brother on a platter when I convened the Thing.”
“You never told me what Konstans offered if you would support them,” his sister said questioningly.
Theodoric gave a vague smile. “I told him that I wish to be considered as the new jarl of Isarn once this war has been fought to its ultimate end.”
“He agreed?” Theodwyn asked with raised eyebrows.
“He promised to consider it,” Theodoric said, his smile turning sardonic. “Neither he nor Valerian will ever accept that in a hundred years, of course. Once Isenhart has been beheaded and the rest of his family driven into exile, a southerner will be given the jarldom and all its silver and iron mines,” Theodoric reasoned. “Someone loyal to the House of Vale that they might control the Adalthing in perpetuity. But if Konstans thinks that the lure of Isarn will keep me in line, I am free to act behind his back.”
“What of young Adalbrand?” Theodwyn remarked with an inquisitive glance at her brother. “I thought you had plans for him as well.”
“I do,” Theodoric nodded. “If nothing else, a military commander of his capability is worth befriending. But he is also the greatest rival that our new prince has, and thus by extension, he is an enemy to Vale. It would not do to reveal towards Konstans that I seek to be on friendly terms with the atheling of House Arnling.”
“What do you intend?” Theodwyn asked.
“I have devised another way to gain what we want without arousing suspicion,” the jarl contemplated. “Hopefully, in a way that ensures Adalbrand is still accessible should I ever have need of an undefeated captain,” he spoke with a listless smile. “Such are hard to come by, after all.”
As night fell, Brand was in one of the small shrines consecrated to Rihimil in the Citadel. Outside, sitting on a chair, was Richard. The young squire, on his last night bearing that rank, was kneeling before the altar. His eyes were fixed on the statue in front of him; endlessly, his lips whispered the Squire’s Pledge.
“When night falls, the squire’s vigil begins.
When dawn rises, so does the Knight.
In peace, a Knight is vigilant.
In war, a Knight is fearless.
In life, a Knight is true.
In death, a Knight is honoured.
I will not rest while battle stirs.
I will not flee where others fight.
My Life and Word are not twain.
My Death and Honour shall be one.
When night falls, my vigil begins.
When dawn rises, so do I.”
As the night neared its end, dark circles surrounded Brand’s eyes. He blinked from time to time, but otherwise, he did not waver. His voice was hoarse, and he spoke the pledge with slow, crisp sounds. Finally, something touched his cheek. It was sunlight; through the window to the east, it announced the end of his vigil. Smiling, Brand rose to his feet. He walked over and opened the door. Outside, Richard sat in his chair, sleeping with an open mouth. Brand cleared his throat, making the knight blink and awaken.
This made Richard get up and walk over to the door. “Adalbrand of House Arnling, born to Arngrim of that house, have you kept your vigil?” Richard asked.
“I have,” Brand spoke in a tired voice.
“Are you prepared to take the Knight’s Oath?”
“I am,” Brand nodded.
“Good,” Richard grinned. Then his smile faltered. “You deserve an accolade by the king himself, or at the very least the lord marshal…” his voice trailed off.
“No need for concern,” Brand said dismissively. “I would consider it an honour if you would lay your blade upon my shoulder, Sir Richard.”
“Truly, it is me that you honour,” Richard said, his voice a little thick. “When do you wish it done?”
“Now, without delay. While I am tired from kneeling all night, one more time will not hurt,” Brand smiled.
He walked back into the room and knelt by the shrine after giving Richard a pair of golden spurs whom the latter pocketed. One hand was placed upon the feet of the statue, and under Rihimil’s watchful and Richard’s sleepy eyes, Brand took his oath as a knight.
“I am a Knight of Adal.
I am sworn to valour.
Valour I wield as my sword.
This is my vow.
I am a Knight of Adal.
I am sworn to justice.
Justice I raise as my shield.
This is my vow.
I am a Knight of Adal.
I am sworn to truth.
Truth I wear as my armour.
This is my vow.
I am a Knight of Adal.
I am sworn to fealty.
Fealty I honour above all.
This is my vow.
My sword fears not death.
My shield defends the weak.
My armour protects the realm.
My oath is my honour.
I am a Knight of Adal.”
With his vows spoken and oath taken, Brand looked up. Richard drew his sword and touched the squire’s left shoulder, his right, and finally, his left again. For each touch, the knight spoke the ritual words.
“In the name of the King, whose command we follow
In the name of the Order, whose codex we follow
In the name of Rihimil, whose example we follow
I name you a knight.”
Richard sheathed his sword. “Arise, Sir Adalbrand,” he commanded. Brand, squire no longer, did so. Digging out the spurs, the old knight gave them to his new peer, one by one. “Now, let us get something to drink!” Richard exclaimed. “I grow thirsty just by listening to your hoarse voice.”
“Very well,” Brand laughed a little. “But later today, we must celebrate with my sister. I promised her so.”
“There shall be celebration enough for all,” Richard grinned as he led the way out of the shrine.
Later that day, the court was assembled in the throne room. The hall that had been quiet for months was once again filled to the brim with people. All the nobility of Adalrik, including beorns and courtiers, were present to watch the lords of the realm swear fealty to their new prince. Usually, this was a custom only done after a king had been crowned, but the new dragonlord had made the Adalthing agree to perform this on the following day. Thus, every lord with a landed title in the realm stood in the centre of the hall, which meant jarls, landgraves, and margraves. The rest of the court stood to the side, watching as, one by one, the noblemen stepped forward towards the throne. Upon it sat Prince Hardmar, flanked by the brothers of Vale.
Among the spectators were Quill and Septimus. They stood in the back where there were few to disturb them or wonder at seeing the two of them together. Septimus stretched his neck a little to watch the jarl of Ingmond approach the throne, soon after followed by his margraves. “I have not seen this tradition enacted before,” the priest spoke, rubbing his neck.
“Nor I,” Quill admitted. “I was still apprentice to my old master last this took place, attending to my duties.”
“And I, a humble priest at the Temple,” Septimus smiled.
“It is a breach of custom, though,” the scribe said. “It is highly irregular for the lords to swear loyalty before the king has been crowned. It does not hold to the word of the law that a prince should demand such.”
“I imagine, given the current circumstances, our new rulers are concerned that there may be more like Jarl Isarn among the noblemen,” Septimus spoke with a sly smile. “Better to bind them with an oath now when their loyalty is most in question.”
“I suppose,” Quill frowned. “I simply dislike the departure from tradition.”
Septimus nodded absentmindedly before he lowered his voice. “Have you heard from our mutual friend?” he spoke quietly while glancing around.
Quill shook his head. “Rumours have reached me, however, now that the way through Ingmond is open again. They say that the war goes ill in Hæthiod. I do not expect any of my messages might reach him in that war-torn realm.”
“I suppose he will turn up at his own pace,” Septimus said calmly. “I am more troubled by the thought of the outlanders holding Hæthiod while the noblemen of Adalrik fight each other.”
“I can only agree,” Quill muttered, “but what can we do to make them see the greater threat?”
“That is the question which keeps me awake at night,” Septimus confessed. “Not until the outlanders are at the gates of Middanhal will these drakonians see reason, and by then, I fear it will be too late.” He narrowed his eyes a little, straining them. “Do I see your friend, Master Quill? Did you not speak of him to me once?” the priest pondered, gesturing towards where Brand stood in the crowd with his sister and sergeant as company.
