Young Writers Society

Author's Notes: 1,638 words.  I think this is about where I settle into my current writing style?  Which is nice, yeah.

Because today had been such an uneventful day, Belisarius regarded the low sun with an air of suspicion. He eased into his chair as much as an anxious man could, watching his soldiers as he messed with the fork in his hands.

The second day of negotiations had gone poorly, as he had expected. It had merely been his peers demanding that Catharnach’s battle strategy be left unchanged, though the rival nations had proposed other arrangements and more subtle ways to strike the city. Of course, he had not been there to see it; he had been informed that this meeting was to be less formal than its predecessor, so his presence would be unnecessary. He resented that he was being so easily pushed aside, but more so of his outburst against the King of Eimhin. The man was unpredictable and ruthless, and the letter warned him that he had earned Catharnach’s full wrath.

Admittedly, given what he knew, he was going to die either way. It was just a matter of whether he wanted to be speared and painfully, slowly die in battle, or be drawn and quartered and painfully, slowly die in front of a bemused audience.

Burying his head in his hands, he screamed. Looking up, he found nobody giving him the slightest glance. As he felt, they all knew that the Mad King had requested to meet with him, and it was awkward to be around a dead man. His own subconsciousness was more in the mood to imagine his mother and father living securely in their tiny house in the city, sweeping the front door and talking with the soldiers. And, of course, the soldiers that would come to the gate with torches in hand, waving banners as they demonstrated what happened to families of traitors.

A trumpet blasted directly into his ear. He shouted and jumped up from his seat, causing it to topple over. Clutching his chest and breathing rapidly, he wheeled around and saw four well-dressed men and woman, all armed with swords and bows. At the center, standing and, for a change, scowling, was Catharnach himself.

“How deaf are you, frightened child?” said the Mad King. Those around him parted as he marched towards the general, who sat back into his seat while trembling. “And have you no respect for your King?”

“I was…surprised, my King,” said Belisarius, staring into the darkening sky. He reached down and patted the ground to search for his helmet, turning his gaze away as Cath stood in front of him.

Bending over, Catharnach grabbed the helmet from in front of Belisarius and ungracefully pushed it over his head. “You are mortified, coward. I suppose you still believe in those silly rumors. You have not possibly considered that I might concede to your demands?”

Belisarius gulped as he stood up and bowed reverentially. “No, my liege, it had not.” By now, he noticed that the surroundings encampments were eerily quiet. Beyond Catharnach and his guard, a few others had appeared on the fringes of the small clearing, including a few men in suits of armor. A brief flash of confusion appeared across Catharnach’s face, but he quickly dispelled it by donning a smile that was far too eerie to be genuine.

“Then let us speak of it in private,” said the Mad King loudly, marching over to Belisarius and grabbing him by the shoulder. Catharnach gestured for his soldiers to stand outside the entrance to the tent as he and Belisarius entered the small space. The Mad King flopped down on Belisarius’s soft, curtained bed, leading Belisarius to sit on the ground in front of Catharnach, who continued speaking. “I had hoped to use the position to motivate you, though it seems it may be better if I promote one of my more eager generals to take your place. Would a position at the rear suit you?”

Black spots danced at the edge of Belisarius’s vision, and he felt faint as he stared up at the expectant face and stuck-out chin of Catharnach. “Y-yes, my King, I would like that.” His heart skipped a beat as the Mad King nodded.

“Then it shall be done,” said Catharnach contently, sighing and pulling out a dagger from within his outfit. “You will be serving me among the dead, and your living compatriots will be worshipping me.”

Belisarius breathed a deep sigh of relief as Catharnach raised the dagger, aiming for Belisarius’s neck. Expecting some far slower, worse torture, Belisarius couldn’t help but find this relatively benign. There was then a sudden ruckus from outside, the sounds of yelling and warnings prefacing the arrival of a strong, tall man in messenger’s garb and a helmet that pushed his hair over part of his face.

The stranger looked panicked. “My King, I have something I need to say—”

By then, however, Catharnach had thrust the dagger downwards, stabbing the stranger through their outstretched hand.

The messenger dropped onto his knees, screaming as they held their bloody hand. Surprised and shocked, the Mad King quickly retracted his weapon, sending blood flying into the air and splattering on the roof of the tent. Belisarius, forgetting to breathe, watched in horror and amazement as the messenger, facing Catharnach, removed their helmet. Their screaming diminished as quickly as it’d arrived came before they said, “You’ve lost, you stupid bastard.”

The Mad King, twitching as he rose from the bed and stood over the messenger, shouted high-pitched orders that Belisarius, too relieved to be alive, could hear clearly. To his right, Belisarius could see the entourage of soldiers attempt to barge their way into the crowded tent, but pushed aside by the men in suits of armor. Catharnach, with surprising speed, shoved himself under the opposite side of the tent and vanished in seconds.

“Let’s talk,” said the messenger. “He knows what’s going to happen if he kills me, so you’re safe where you are. I have a way to make sure that you have the same immunity. If we play this just right, you can work with me, and you don’t have to die trying to take the city. Does that sound fair?” Standing up, the messenger turned around. Belisarius gasped as he recognized the face of Kasimir, King of Walenty.

Belisarius shook his head. “No, you can’t be, there’s no way that one of the most powerful men in the world would –”

Smiling, Kasimir raised a bloody finger. “Be so stupid? Unfortunately enough, that’s just who I happen to be. That I could get my hands on an ill-fitting messenger’s suit and run between thousands of soldiers to get to you should be your real question. I can’t answer it myself, honestly.”

“But…oh my,” said Belisarius after some thought. “You’re not unharmed, though.”

Kasimir shrugged. “True, but I’ve had worse. We’re also straying from the topic here – your safety, and maybe an alliance to come with it. A real one, I mean.”

“What about my soldiers?” blurted out Belisarius, rubbing his hands through his hair. “There are too many innocent men and women here, and I’d rather die before I placed my life above theirs.”

The King of Walenty rested on Belisarius’s bed, bending backwards to look up at the red-tinged ceiling. “That’s why I like you. You’re not some glory-loving halfwit ready to die for an idiot of a king. You’re the rotten apple in his eyes, since your more caring and scrupulous than any of us.” Kasimir pushed himself up to a seating position.

“I’m going to be honest with you: it might already be too late. Even without you, he still has a lot of good men, and his son is smarter than he looks. We might still be forced into battle, and we might still all die. At the least, a lot of your soldiers are in trouble. But I’m not a man who backs down easily – I wouldn’t be a king if I gave up. I have a few cards left to play, and I was wondering if you and your soldiers want to help. You don’t really think you have another choice, do you?”

Belisarius buried his head in his hands. Though tempted to scream for a third time, his mind eventually thought better of it, though not without some self-deprecation and dismay. “No, I suppose not. I can’t die and let the security of the people I care about go to some gallant cur who won’t think twice about putting them before Wyandanch’s arrows. I’m interested, but I must let you know that I still can’t entirely trust you.”

“That’s another reason I like you,” said Kasimir, grinning playfully. “No smart man has ever trusted me. Still, we have a mutual interest in not dying, and so I hope you’re willing to talk some strategy with me. With the information and people you have, we can make sure that the Mad King can’t kill you without destroying himself.”

“What information could I possibly have that-” began Belisarius angrily, seething at the absurdity that he, as neglected by his compatriots as he was, should know anything. He hesitated.

Kasimir’s smile grew wider. “That only you and your fellow generals know their soldiers are going to die pointlessly? Yes, my friends and I are already quite aware, and that’s just one idea I have in mind. Now, if you’ll excuse me” – he stood up and gestured to somebody standing away from the entrance of the tent – “I need to make sure I don’t die. I will give you my word, as a King and a somewhat good man, that I will do the best I can to keep you and your soldiers alive.”

“And I need all the help I can get,” mumbled Belisarius. “I don’t know how much worse things could possibly be.”