An Insurrection Read online

  More men fled in every direction seeing their king fallen, as Desh’s men marched faster toward the city gate. Morn grabbed the king by the back of the neck and hefted him from the ground with a giant paw of a hand. The grip nearly crushed the king’s neck and he clawed at Morn’s hand in futility trying to free himself. Ahead of everyone, Morn walked Thurstan to the castle wall. Desh followed, as he watched the king squirm.

  ‘Treat him as he treated Khan.’ A voice bellowed in the distance. His outburst earned an eruption of approval from his battle-hardened comrades.

  ‘He’s no where near the man Khan was!’ A raspy voice boomed.

  ‘Aye!’ A thousand men roared in unison.

  Morn raised Thurstan up and pushed him against the wall, his neck teen feet from the ground.

  Desh looked at him as Morn held the king firmly in place. He tried to put up a fight, but the Shademaker punched him near senseless and Thurstan halted any further attempts to free himself. There was nothing he could do against the Shademaker. Looking in those grey dead eyes, Thurstan knew the man was Death made flesh.

  ‘Good man, may I have your pitchfork.’ Desh called out to an old fellow standing off in the distance, just a few feet away from the commotion of the king’s predicament.

  ‘Of course mighty friend.’ The old man said as he approached and handed over his garden tool.

  Desh looked down at his feet and shook his head. ‘The irony of it all.’ The king looked at him puzzled, Desh twirling the pitchfork in his left hand.

  ‘What?’ The king said vocalizing his confusion and looking down at Desh with wild contempt.

  ‘Better a pitchfork at your side than a sword in the chest.’ Desh said cocking his head to the side with a wide grin on his face.

  The king made a breathy sound, full of fear and horror. He’d remembered the words between them. Thought he’d be the victor this day. The mercenaries he’d hired ended all hope of that outcome. Gold. It had a funny way with a man’s heart. Thurstan wet his lips to speak, but a fight for his life was upon him.

  Without warning Desh slammed his sword through the king’s chest. He could hear the crunch of bones and then the rumble of stone having used all his might to plunge his sword into the king’s chest. ‘All the battle hardened warriors have tucked tail and run,’ Desh said bursting out into laughter, watching Morn bang the sword deeper into the king. The stone behind him gave way as Morn hammered it. Thurstan kicked his feet, and grabbed at the sword’s blade in a futile attempt to pull it out.

  ‘Gurghk,’ Thurstan choked on his own blood and his arms dropped to his sides.

  ‘It is far too much to see Thurstan the Mighty nailed to his own wall,’ Brack said with a hearty grunt. He’d said the same thing when Khan fell, knowing the men’s heart might turn to mush. ‘Shame really.’ Brack scratched his baldhead.

  ‘What is?’ Desh asked confused.

  ‘His army lost heart before you skewered him to the wall with your blade,’ Brack said grunting again as he began to laugh.

  ‘This victory should have been Khan’s.’ Desh looked puzzled as he listened intently to a sound that was all too familiar. His expression stopped Brack from speaking as Desh turned to face the castle.

  ‘More killing…’ Morn said, seeing Desh’s surprise. His eyes were overflowing with lust again as he listened to the throng of men cheering all around them. Dozens of them had already begun flooding into the castle. The spoils had to be had. That was the way of war. Hungry men would feed themselves in victory. Fear was in the air. The screaming of women and children echoed from inside the castle walls.

  Desh turned hard and began to push through the crowd of men cheering his name. Those who could see Desh marching toward the castle doors pushed others back, making a way for him to walk. Morn and Brack had made their way to his sides, watching intently those around them. In war, you could never be too careful.

  A half dozen other men fell in behind Morn and Brack. Brack turned to see who was following and recognized one as Beld Slimhand. The other men wore his sword-in-skull emblem upon their armor. They embraced, clutching hard at one another’s forearms. That’s how warriors greeted. Takes a lot more pressure to crack the arm bones than it does the hand. One could never be too careful in the company of killers.

  The great hall was filled with women, children, and old citizens, far too unfit for combat. Armored guards sworn to defend them had surrendered their weapons to Desh’s men long before he’d heard the screaming. Three of them lay dead, clean swords on the floor near them. Another clung to life, reaching up as Desh approached. Stepping over the man coolly, Desh strode forward toward the unoccupied throne at the back of the hall.

  Setting himself down upon the red cushioned chair adorned with jewels, he leaned to one side, resting his chin on a balled fist. Brack walked slowly up the short set of steps onto the dais and stood on Desh’s right. Beld Slimhand quickly found himself upon the dais on Desh’s left and ordered his men to stand guard before the stairs.

  From the throne Desh could see everyone in the hall below him. The citizens of Lorencia stood against the wall clutching one another in fear. Their protectors stood with them. Their armor shelled bodies were the only thing standing between the people and Desh’s men. They thought them to be savages, but they only killed armed men. No one was harmed. When Thurstan’s last contingent of men dropped their arms they too were spared.

  Morn was shocked by their restraint as he kneeled over the guard still clinging to life, tugging as his gauntlets. Morn knew the look well. Life was far more precious to the man now. He wanted his wounds to close. He wanted to be saved, so that he could live.

  ‘Please,’ the guard muttered, his voice ragged and full of suffering.

  ‘The killing is nearly done,’ Morn said with kindness in his commanding voice. He studied the man’s face as he set Thurstan’s crown on the floor beside his head. His eyes shined still, but not with the lust of death as they always had. A morsel of compassion was there. ‘I shall be merciful so that your misery might end.’ With those words Morn covered the guard’s eyes with his hand and slipped a short blade into his throat. Severing the large vein as he cut sideways, the guard’s hand dropped to his sides and he fell silent.

  ‘Hail Garvin Desh! Our king!’ One of the men proclaimed.

  ‘Long live the king!’ Another proclaimed with more eagerness than the last man. ‘Kneel before your king.’ He stepped to the center of the room, just before Beld’s guards and pointed his sword at everyone around him. One by one the fearful bent the knee to Desh. The unarmed guards followed soon after. ‘Kneel,’ the man said to Morn seeing everyone else upon the knee in supplication.

  He should have known better. The man should have taken note of the armor Morn wore. Like Brack’s it was identical to Desh’s in every way. Sure, Desh was giving the orders, but nothing about his armor and cape was different. Maybe to this man, armor was armor, no matter how it looked. The fact that Morn and Desh wore the same emblem upon the left side of their breastplates didn't matter either. Sure Desh’s backside was on the throne, but Morn held Thurstan’s crown in his hand. Desh knew it. He’d watched him take it from the dead king’s head. He didn’t demand the gold circlet, nor did Morn offer it. Not even when Desh took the chair.

  If none of those things moved the enthusiastic man to rethink his position, Morn’s eyes should have. Those grey dead eyes weren’t worn by a man who bent the knee. They were the frightening windows into the realm of the dead. His voice was the beckoning of Death’s Summons. ‘What is your name?’

  He stammered for a moment as he looked around at Beld’s men who offered no support. Old friends he was with Brack, but he knew the legend of the Shademaker far better. Beld had quickly told them to stay where they were. The man turned his eyes to Brack. The bald man shrugged and rolled his eyes uninterested. Shock poured over his face. His expectation was drowned in silence and Desh clenched his jaw, watching Morn fervently.

  ‘Dane,’ Dane said
breathing in deeply.

  ‘Dane. I would bend the knee to your king if you are capable of forcing my legs to fold,’ Morn said.

  Dane moved quickly, covering the space between Morn and himself in a few strides. He was no coward. He bared his teeth as he readied his strike. His swing was packed with malice, but it missed. Morn had shifted sideways, too fast for him to see. Dane spun, swinging his sword high to slash at Morn’s neck, but again he found air as his sword sung.

  Dane shifted fast, raising his sword high above his head ready to strike hard. He was sure that the blow would land and put an end to the man who wouldn’t bow to his king. Morn was foolish enough to stand still as he brought his sword down. He had to be begging for death.

  As his sword came down Dane felt a jolt of discomfort shoot through his arms. The ringing of metal against the hard floor sung in his ears. He’d missed again. Disbelief clouded his mind. There was no way a man that big should be able to move that fast. Not that fast, not in full armor. Most certainly not with his long sword still stuffed in the scabbard on his back. His white cape was heavy too. The crown in his hand may have been a light burden to carry, but still it weighed a pound or two. No way.

  ‘Kneel,’ Dane spewed in anger as he lifted his sword to turn around. His shoulder collided with something hard and immovable and before his eyes could inform him, he felt a great weight close in around his neck.

  Snap. The pain was excruciating and he dropped his sword as his senses began to flee him. The air he’d hoped to breath was unable to find its way into his lungs. He dropped to his knees in weakness as Morn released the grip on his neck. Dane was past struggling. Fear had been replaced by desperation. He clawed at his throat, feeling his crushed windpipe, and hoped that it could somehow be repaired.

  Morn kneeled next to Dane and turned him toward Desh. He whispered in his ear softly. ‘Your king has not lifted a hand to save you. He hasn’t offered a word.’ Morn saw the question burning in Dane’s eyes and provided him the answer. ‘You yourself forgot to kneel. So I am glad that I could help you find your place before him.’ He listened to Dane whimper as tears began to stream from his eyes. ‘In your foolish attempt to gain favor with your king, you knew not that I am beholden to but one. The same man that Garvin Desh and Brack the Bald is beholden to. Yet, even to this man I do not bend the knee.’ Dane looked at Morn puzzled. The whimpers and failed gasps for air worsened. Each fit coming faster than the last. “There need be no more killing. If you would but allow me to show you mercy, your misery might end.”

  Slowly, Morn slipped the blade into Dane’s throat and he fell silent. He fell forward and landed on the side of his face, blood running from the wound in his neck.

  Morn stood tall. Those grey dead eyes fell upon Desh. A smirk crawled across Morn’s face as he walked toward the guards standing before the dais. The guards remained still and the Shademaker narrowed his eyes. With his jaw clenched he swiftly turned them on Beld Slimhand.

  Beld had seen the look before. He’d been witness to the terrible aftermath that followed an offended Morn Shademaker. Ten men fell dead in his wake that day. All of them members of Morn’s own contingent. Beld knew there’d be no mercy for his men if that clenched jaw became a grimace. ‘Make way!’ Beld’s voice was packed with anger, but his heart pounded in fear.

  The guards shifted out of Morn’s way. Morn offered Beld a nod. He took the short staircase in one long stride. Standing in front of Desh, he towered over him, two inches above seven feet. Looking down upon Desh, he shook his head no as if disappointed.

  ‘I already know what you’re going to say,’ Desh said, a stern look at war with anger on his face.

  ‘Then you’ve made your choice?’ Morn raised his chin slightly, awaiting the answer he knew well. Yet, unspoken intentions meant nothing in their order. A man may be brief, but a man must speak. ‘Say it and be done wit it.’

  ‘This land and her people are mine, and I shall rule here justly. I shall make this house my home. I am Lorencia’s protector. I am her king,’ Desh said, his eyes locked upon Morn’s; those grey dead eyes.

  Morn strode behind the throne and held the crown with two hands over Desh’s head. ‘By virtue of victory in war, I proclaim Garvin Desh, King of Lorencia.’ Morn placed the crown upon Desh’s head and the hall erupted with applause.

  Placing his hands upon Desh’s shoulders, Morn leaned in close to Desh’s ear. The edgy sound of Death’s Summons entered into his voice, darker and more harrowing than before. The hair on Desh’s arms stood up and a chill ran down the length of his spine.

  ‘Brave men, honorable men, and even hired killers become contaminated by power. They forget their virtues, and they forget honor. Drowned do they become in their own legends. Choked do they become by the suffocating grip of politics. Soon do they forget where their true allegiances align. Thus, remember well my dear brother that even kings have masters. Do remember that when they are called they must answer. Forget not that your oaths were sacred. For if you do, The Hurricane shall blow, and The Tide will coming storming through; and He leaves only Death in his wake.’

  THE END

  Thank You For Reading An Insurrection!

  I would be very grateful if you would take a few minutes to write a review of your experience with my short story on Amazon.com. I want to know if you loved it, liked it, or hated it. Your review will help me improve the series as it moves along and become a better writer. Thanks again for reading. ~ A.S. Washington

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  SHADEMAKER

  About the Author

  A.S. Washington was born on the 19th day of September in 1983. He graduated from Temple University with a degree in Economics, and lives in New Jersey where he works with at-risk teenagers. As a boy he fell in love with books and began writing his own stories. In December of 2011, his debut novel, The Virgin Surgeon was published. In the summer of 2012, his first collection of poetry, The Musings of My Epic Mind was published. The Twelve was his third published work. In the fall of 2013, A.S. Washington published Book One of the Weary King Series, Words of the Weary King, a collection of poetry. A Generation’s Journey is his third novel and fifth published work.

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  Thank You For Reading An Insurrection!

  I would be very grateful if you would take a few minutes to write a review of your experience with my short story on Amazon.com. I want to know if you loved it, liked it, or hated it. Your review will help me improve the series as it moves along and become a better writer. Thanks again for reading. ~ A.S. Washington