Young Writers Society

Author's Words: 1,976 words.  Meet Cath.  He's kind of evil.

Closing his eyes, the bear was gone in a second. In his place was a man about as large as the advisor had been. This person appeared strong and affable, thanks to his dark-blue, royal outfit covering his massive frame, and the huge sword – almost long enough to touch the ceiling of the tent - strapped to his back. With a slightly-protruding chin and warm smile, he looked at the small gathering of leaders and their attendants in earnest. Cerin, staring up from the table, ducked her head again, seeming almost as afraid of this round-faced, brown-eyed, black-haired man as she was of Alsather. Then again, as Alsather knew, everyone terrified her here.

The new man saw the goblet, took a sip of it, and admitted nothing in his expression as he momentarily quivered and a tear fell down one of his eyes. After a few rough gasps and clutching his chest, followed by handing the chalice to the man who had given it out previously, he ruffled his hair with a tanned hand, revealing small ears trapped in the dark mass. Leaning back in his chair, planting his huge arms firmly on the table, he finally focused his vision on Alsather, smirking. “I thought you hated humanity, you smug old snake. Change in heart?”

Alsather sighed and pinched his nose. “You have asked this question a thousand times, you errant buffoon. You know that I cannot walk in any other of my forms, and performing any task at all would be a pain. Sometimes, I earnestly wonder how you came to be the King of Walenty.”

Kasimir, the King Walenty, leaned forward, his smile turning malevolent. “Now, who was the one who said something about insulting allies?”

In response, Alsather scowled, flashing yellowed, but otherwise perfectly ordinary, human teeth. “Charming,” he said quietly, the corner of his mouth briefly shifting upwards in an insincere smile. Deciding that it would be a bad idea to say anything further, he huffed and pushed Cerin into the waiting arms of a tall, brunette lady with cataracted eyes. He ignored the Cerin’s worried looks as he marched about the tent, boots leaving faint impressions in the mostly-dried grass as he pulled down maps from spikes along the walls and set them down on the table. Taking caution to not trip over the wooden cabinets and seats interspersed across the area, he rummaged through drawers for further texts and maps, every pair of eyes in the room watching him intently. Kasimir maintained a quiet conversation with his wolf soldier, gesturing and glancing at Alsather a few times. The latter noticed how the wolf soldier nodded his head and left the tent summarily.

“I should hope that Aelius has no one here?” said Alsather at last, grabbing a large bundle of scrolls and laying them out across the war table. He murmured to himself as he stared over the impression of a massive, fortified, hexagonal city, pointing fingers to various marked points of entrance.

Kasimir placed his elbows on the table, causing it to bend in his direction, and peered over,. “In this room, no,” he remarked dryly, while Alsather snatched up papers and rearranged them hurriedly so that they would not fall upon the ground. “There is bound to be a spy or messenger scattered in this camp, as I know he isn’t dumb to ignore a sudden move of troops among his allies. He won’t dare to bring any soldiers himself, but he will be more than happy to condemn us. Still, I hope our operation will be over long before he can get the news and react.” The King of Walenty pulled out a large pair of spectacles from a small pouch tucked in his shirt, ignoring Alsather’s death glare, before silently reading the text on the maps.

“I see no reason as to why he has joined us in the first place,” Alsather fumed, walking over to the entrance of the tent and gesturing for a few well-dressed individuals to enter. They gathered behind his seat, patiently awaiting his commands, as he stared down at the still-reading Kasimir and continued, “He persists to believe in his folly of diplomacy with undiplomatic individuals, and then brags and boasts as though he feels he is truly solving the problem at hand while antagonizing and harrying our efforts. The King of Comas preaches lies, and I have no tolerance for him.”

After a few seconds of silence, Kasimir stared right back, flashing a smile. “It’s always enjoyable to watch you rage against kings and lords despite how much danger it brings on yourself. You know that you’re happy to have his name attached to our plot, if not his soldiers.” He stood up and stretched, forcing Alsather to take a few steps back on threat of being hit by a massive arm. “Besides, what better way to get back at him than tie him to something that would ruin his reputation?”

Alsather responded with his default expression, but nodded in slight eagerness. He resumed seating where he had been previously, twiddling his fingers in contemplation as he observed Kasimir keep reading. The way that Kasimir would smirk at some random detail was exceptionally unnerving, as it was always hard to tell what he was thinking. He had that knack for making himself look far stupider than he was. Still, never to be done with the conversation, and knowing that it would be incredibly hard to break Kasimir’s façade, Alsather piped up on a different topic. “He will be coming here soon, I imagine. Of course, it is full well possible he may be asleep, and is not bothered by leaving us in this cold weather for so long.”

“I’ve run a mile,” grumbled Kasimir, impatient by being distracted from his reading, “and I’m tired of hearing the word ‘cold.’ Inside and outside, you’re the only ‘cold’ one here. The King may be a slouch, and as dour as you, but I’m sure he’s relishing being with his husband rather than being stuck with you.”

Alsather was about to voice a complaint, but was silenced by the loud call of a trumpet’s notes breaking the camaraderie. He resorted to crossing his arms and glaring ferociously at the entrance to the tent. A few seconds passed before the wolf soldier arrived, bringing with him a stern-looking young man with bowl-cut, brown-reddish hair. His elaborate robes, adorned in the center by the emblem of a shield, upon which a man’s outstretched hand held out a sword against a serpentine-looking rival, were dull gray and mud-splattered, but he paid no heed to his own appearance. The young man set down the bundle of papers and books in his own hand (designating him as a strategist) and smiled faintly as he quickly talked to Kasimir, the wolf soldier standing over them both. Even this was silenced under the procession of shadows now forming around the edges of the tent.

There was no need for torches when the sun had already risen for some time; all it did was emphasize the row of soldiers with spears marching across the field of the camp. Though it was slightly masked by the tent flap, Alsather could see several attendants holding up a massive platform draped over with green curtains, hiding the faces of the two within. Smart, well-dressed people stood at the front of the procession, stepping aside as the platform neared. They wore the same color of green on the curtains; the generals among them saluted as bronze shields of an archer riding atop a deer gleamed in the sunlight. Everyone looked clean-shaven, strong, and exceeding healthy. As the soldiers set down the platform in front of those within the tent, who were now crowding towards the entrance, Alsather sighed. The men within those beautiful green curtains likely didn’t look nearly as dignified.

The trumpet stopped playing as one man leaped out from behind the green screen and stood unsteadily on the grass.

A single word to describe him would be haggard. Lanky, pale, and tall, the man in question rose above Alsather, being slightly higher than even Kasimir. He wore two capes that fluttered as he stood; the bottom was brown and orange, and the top was green. Tight fitting shoes constrained his feet and left him unstable on the ground, although his general haphazard appearance indicated he wasn’t much for balance and prestige. Wearing green robes atop a leather vest and black pants bound by a tightly-drawn belt with a metal buckle, he raised his arms in the air dramatically, and brandished a smug and slightly annoyed smile on his face. Alsather had a hard time looking away from the mass of stubble, the deep bags under the eyes, and slightly-maddened stare of the man as he stepped out of the tent and shook hands. The man looked quite happy to see Alsather uncomfortable, stepping forward in pride as he pulled off a green cap to reveal dry, limp, and blonde hair bound into dreadlocks.

A second man exited the platform while the first one made his way towards the tent. Dressed similarly, though the outfit was looser, he had close-cropped black hair and looked far healthier, more clean-shaven, and professional, save for his pompous narrowed eyes and scowl that quickly degenerated into an even more smug grin. However, the manner in which he walked around awkwardly, and his eyes seemed to dilate and contract, indicated that he was drunk. None of the generals that had accompanied them, assuming they noticed such an undignified spectacle, said anything about it. It was wiser not to.

As Alsather retreated back into the confines of the tent, Kasimir stepped out warily, followed by his strategist and wolf soldier. Reaching to embrace the leading man, Kasimir’s smile disintegrated into an expression of disgust and discomfort, much to the leading man’s amusement. Kasimir rapidly transformed into the bear advisor, who subsequently briefly engulfed the green man in a hug while looking increasingly repulsed. After shaking hands, the leading man brushed the hair off of his outfit while the bear shifted back into Kasimir, who sighed in exasperation and defeat and also shook hands.

“Cath,” acknowledged Kasimir in as diplomatic and patient a tone as he could muster. He held an outstretched palm to the slowly-approaching black-haired man, who was trying to keep himself steady through staring at his feet intently. “Leathan. As dignified as ever.”

Cath assumed a confident pose, though his face degenerated into a long scowl at Kasimir. “All I have heard you make are backhanded compliments. You should, and must, address your superior with confidence. I don’t want nicknames; I want the respect that I deserve.”

Kasimir sighed and slouched as Cath shook hands with the former’s associates, saying his next lines in agitation and a flat voice. “The Mad King of Eimhin, Lord Catharnach, Deerhunter, and Leader of the Alliance of Boisboudran.”

Catharnach waved aside the Lord Walenty’s associates while calling in his own generals, who broke their silent formation to crowd the entrance to the tent. “I am not mad,” he barked at the other King as the royal in question walked past him and sat down at the same seat as before, though now slouching. “You all call me mad, deciding that I’m not worth your respect. Behind every corner, pillar, and wall, you deride me. I know the rumors. Know that I am devoted to the cause, and that you should take notice of me.”

With a flourish of his cape, Catharnach stood before the tap and pointed to the city at the center of the map. “And now, ladies and gentlemen, I have a show to run, and you’re fortunate to be invited here in safety, rather than be on the stage of the act.”

He sneered. “It’s almost better that way.”