Intrigue, exile, and the cost of survival.
Table of Contents | Map: Golden Kingdoms | The Moons | Numbers & Measures
3: The Council
Froerig > Adain Andür, Golden Kingdoms
The thrust had to be clean, and strong enough to sever the sinew in the neck to reach the main artery. And there were the bones – they seemed to take a particular delight in deflecting a blade in unplanned, but frequently interesting ways. It was a matter of precision, really. But what? A sharp blade – with two crisp edges, and long enough to do the job? Leverage? The blade needed the support of a proper grip to do its work. And the angle was certainly important – he’d learned that for himself, many times over. That was it then. To do himself in proper and quick, there was only one answer: he’d have to fall on his sword.
Froerig stood at his post – one of two King’s Guardsmen assigned to the Hall of Council – and contemplated quick ways to die. Strength was an equalizer and could often finish the job if precision were in short supply. A clean thrust or a strong thrust. In the end. Dead was dead. And, as the Council droned on through the day, dead sounded better and better.
He glanced across the entryway at his counterpart, Rüch, who held his post at absurdly stiff attention. Froerig shifted his weight to his left leg, gently stretching out the right, and eased the firm muscles hidden beneath his armor in the ways a Guardsman learned to find comfort after hundreds of long hours spent immobile. It was Rüch’s first posting to the Council, and the younger man had stood proudly erect through the morning. He would learn.
Where was Larim Pfeidril, anyway? The Guardsman, two years Froerig’s senior, had been absent from morning inspection, and Rüch had been assigned his duty. Froerig had heard the word ‘unwell’ used to explain his absence but was skeptical. Unless “unwell” meant the aftermath of several nights spent in the cups with too much drink and unremembered women – no rumor, that – Froerig had been there himself.
Rüch cut a fine figure of a Guardsman, shoulders back and chest out, the ornate golden cape of the King’s Guard flowing off his shoulders and down his back toward the floor. His gray surcoat – the crest of the Kingdoms emblazoned on the front – and trousers hung crisply pressed and with no awkward folds or drapes. The black belt – polished to a shine – made a fine presentation of the gold-trimmed scabbard and hilt of the deadly-sharp Guardsman’s blade. Identical to the one hanging at Froerig’s waist.
At 26 years, Rüch was the youngest member of the King’s Guardsmen currently in service – having sworn the Gray Oath only a year prior. It was the oath every man swore before being elevated from a soldier to the elite King’s Guard. After swearing the Gray, the colored uniform and cape of a common soldier – tied to one’s kingdom of birth – were traded for the sharp gray uniform and golden cape of the Guardsmen.
The gray uniforms meant something: no allegiance beyond the King. A visual symbol of the oath Froerig had sworn himself, more than six years ago, now. All foresworn oaths abandoned, former allegiances renounced. The Gray Oath meant unwavering loyalty to the Crown and Kingdoms. Every member of the Guard felt it deeply – sixty men of loyalty and resolve. Never more. Never less.
On the Council floor, several tiered steps below Froerig’s vantage, Nedrom Intikai, the Prime for the kingdom of Aerohim, rattled on about some point he’d been trying to make for too many moments now. By the look of the King and the rest of the Council, they held similar opinions. Intikai’s Shadow and Aspirant sat to his left, both unreadable. Froerig considered his sword again.
Guardsmen, especially in larger settings, weren’t held to a strict expectation of silence, and he’d shared many a whispered conversation across this entryway over the years. Froerig leaned toward Rüch, still at rigid attention. “I’d sooner fall on my blade than bear another moment of this prattle.” He added, “If you like, I’ll do you first as a courtesy to a fellow Guardsman.”
Rüch, surprised by the conversation and the joke, couldn’t help himself and belted out a sharp laugh. A reaction caught too late – and immediately regretted – as evidenced by the darkening of his cheeks in the telltale flush of a brown-skinned man. Heads turned toward the entryway with annoyance. Low conversation was tolerated – expected even – but interruption was not.
Rüch snapped back to attention, squaring his jaw behind its tightly groomed chin-beard, and made no visible acknowledgment or apology for the outburst. Had Froerig been the offender, he’d have likely offered a ‘Him, not me,’ turn of the head – a final punchline to the joke. Rüch might be alright, on consideration. He simply needed some mentoring – an evening’s distractions with the younger Guardsman in tow at one of Froerig’s favorite taverns.
His gaze returned to Intikai – a pretty man, olive-skinned, with long flowing black hair and a reputed popularity with the ladies of the court. Froerig often caught the King in some stage of frowning when the Prime spoke. Intikai was widely known as a plotter and as a Prime who openly sought advantage for Aerohim, often to the detriment of the other two kingdoms. Froerig could confirm, from long experience: the man liked the sound of his voice too well.
On the wall behind the King hung the crest of the Golden Kingdoms – a large, ornamented banner with far more detail than the one on Froerig’s chest, but the same in what it depicted. Outermost, the sun itself. Inside that, a shield. The shield divided into three sections. The symbols of Eilidrim and Aerohim above, and Liariador below: Baer, Lion, and Swan.
Intikai’s ceaseless oration battered dully at Froerig’s consciousness, like an engine of siege, until it finally gave way. He’d practiced not hearing for many years – all the Guardsmen did – and oftentimes it worked. Today, however, Intikai’s droning became words, and words: speech. “…which is why I must insist that we be given leave to sell our surplus grain through the Kingdom’s Trade.” Froerig yearned for the peace of his blade. “I therefore move that Aerohim be granted official leave to do just this.”
Froerig watched as the King’s jaw squared – displeasure, maybe a hint of anger, too – an immediate tell as to King Ander Elethi’s stance on a matter. The King had been a fine swordsman in his middle years, but his regular presence at official dinners and too many Council meetings had softened him. Now, his belly pushed over his belt, his arms softened at the back, and his cleanly trimmed, shoulder-length hair carried a silvering painted by years of the worries of the Kingdoms and the unwelcome advances of age.
Intikai’s voice grated at the inner walls of Froerig’s ears. “I call the motion to an immediate vote.” Froerig wished he could choke the man with his own tongue – he didn’t think the King would mind – but there were witnesses. Instead, his mind drifted to a distraction he and Larim had played at many times – a game of soldiers. He ran his eyes across the King again – this time, truly assessing the man’s ability to put up a good fight. Yes, Froerig could take him. True, the King was rumored to have been lightning-quick in his day, but at 49 years and in his current state, Ander Elethi would provide little sport.
Froerig shifted his gaze to the man who frequently occupied the seat beside the King, Willaem Pendau, the Shieldbearer. Now that would be a proper contest of arms. Pendau, although similar in age to the King, carried the frame and musculature of a man kept hard by years of training. Pendau’s eyes caught his, and Froerig froze, feeling like a child caught stealing a handful from the pie his mum had left on the sill to cool. The Shieldbearer turned back to the Council’s proceedings, and Froerig decided, after a breath, to continue his fun. His eyes wandered around the room.
A few seats to the King’s left, Aldren Brisël sat, listening somewhat intently, in the chair normally occupied by Liariador’s Prime. Brisël in the Prime’s seat meant that the Aspirant was acting as Prime in the absence of his seniors. Froerig had learned that much over the years. More than he cared to know – but known anyway. There’d be no contest in a duel with the young politician. Now, Boriath Eldor, the absent Prime and former Minister of War – he was an intimidating warrior that Froerig would not choose to face, even with his age and rumors about the man’s pained back. The empty seat to Brisël’s left would normally be filled by Liariador’s Shadow, Iraenor Solmere. Froerig would never willingly fight a woman, even if she had served with the military – it held no advantage. If you won, it was ‘because she was a woman,’ and a draw, or loss – he couldn’t fathom the shame.
On the far side of the room, Intikai waited coldly for the vote he had called. He was leaner, and clearly more fit, than most of the Council members in the room. Although there’d be no real contest there, Froerig would genuinely enjoy the opportunity to reduce the man’s pride – maybe a scar given as a reminder of the lost contest.
Intikai frowned, visibly baring his teeth as Taevrol du Kemp, the Prime for Eilidrim, spoke out against his motion. “I stand opposed to this motion, as it might well drive down the price of grain, and possibly other goods across the Kingdoms. Its repercussions could be far-reaching and cannot be fully predicted.” Intikai’s teeth still betrayed his ire. The man’s pride needed more reduction than the loss of a single contest.
Froerig returned to his game, sizing up du Kemp, a burly mountain of a man from a kingdom that seemed to favor men of his build. Froerig might best him in a duel, but du Kemp would crush him in a contest of strength. It would be fun to try, though.
The Officiant running the Council meeting spoke, snapping Froerig’s attention away from the game. “All have spoken. The motion before you is to grant Aerohim leave to sell their excess grain through the Kingdom’s Trade. Three kingdoms, three votes – one vote per Prime or acting Prime. How vote the kingdoms?” The Officiant paused for a few breaths and then continued, “First, the ayes.”
Intikai immediately cast his vote in favor of the motion. Just a breath later, Aldren Brisël gave an “Aye” as well. Seeming to feel a need to justify his vote, the young politician quickly added, “I believe it only fair, and just, to permit them the sale of the excess grain.”
Across the room, Intikai’s face registered genuine surprise, and a note of something else – unreadable. He hadn’t anticipated Liariador’s support.
Froerig registered what he thought was a flash of surprise from the King. Ander Elethi would likely pull the young Aspirant aside for a few words after the Council ended its business – the new ones always needed teaching. He glanced toward Rüch.
“And, the nays, for the official record.” Du Kemp voted in opposition, and the Officiant made notes in his journal of the meeting. “The motion is carried at two for, and one opposed. Let the official record reflect that…”
The King coughed loudly, interrupting the Officiant. It was a manufactured cough and spoke as loudly as any words: “I have something to say.”
Elethi rose from his seat, as was his way when he had official words for the Council. He cleared his throat – real this time – parched by many long hours of silent observation. “As King, I invoke my right and overrule the Council’s decision.” Intikai sneered at the King, and Froerig smiled inwardly.
Elethi offered no more words – the matter having been settled in his mind. Kings owed no explanation for their choices.
The Officiant nodded, made an overly articulated gesture of lining through his previous notes, jotted a few new ones, and then announced, “The record will reflect that the King has overruled a non-unanimous vote, as is his right by law. The matter is closed.”
Intikai’s eyebrows seemed to knit themselves together as he hung his head. His feelings on the matter clear but unexpressed. A wise decision. Froerig enjoyed the man’s rage for a few breaths and flashed him an unfriendly grin from the entryway. Not sorry for your trouble.
The Officiant returned to his proceedings. “Before Aerohim yields the floor, have you any other matters to bring before the Council?”
Intikai stood, and Froerig resisted the groan that struggled in his chest. Would the man ever shut his gob?
The Prime held up a small curl of paper for the Council to see – a pidgen’s message by its look. “Just this morn, I received word of an attack on the port town of Färenmouth, east of the Lion’s Veld.” A few murmurs from the Council. Even Froerig listened intently. “Details are limited, but a few facts are clear. Much of the town was burned.” Intikai looked around the room, enjoying the unforced attention. “And many of the town’s citizenry murdered.”
Questions flew from the Council floor then. Who attacked? To what purpose? What aid might the Kingdoms offer?
The inquiries continued with little elaboration, and Froerig turned to his own thoughts. Murder, at scale, was a massacre. That wasn’t the Warrior’s Code – the creed drilled into every soldier before they were offered a sword. His mind began recounting the code, unasked. “Never kill when ye can but maim…” Froerig ended the ancient recitation there.
The Code, distilled down, taught every soldier one central precept: “Do only as much harm as necessary.” They learned to live by it. Breathe it. Obey it. It was the first thought a soldier should have as they readied their weapon: “How much harm must I do?” But massacre didn’t live by any creed. It was slaughter. Pure and simple. No Code. And no mercy.
The discussion, having no reachable destination, was concluded. Intikai yielded the floor, and Froerig’s attention turned to matters more pressing than news from the far side of the Kingdoms. A terrible itch had flared on his right shoulder, near the inside edge of the golden epaulet that held his cape in place. He took a step back and gently pressed the epaulet against the stone wall behind him, using the leverage to ease his discomfort quietly. A learned skill. One of the many hundreds of things a Guardsman needed to know that were of no consequence to a common soldier.
His shoulder’s distress satisfied, Froerig stepped forward to his post and returned to his game. On the far right of the Hall of Council, the two Ellish Envoys sat as they always did: silent and unreadable. Pale-skinned and tall, with lithe but powerful-looking bodies. He’d never faced an Elle in combat. A truly unknown and unpredictable adversary. That would be a treat.
The Council meeting droned on through the afternoon, and, before its end, Froerig considered the peace of his blade several times more.
Copyright ©2026 Mike Clements, writing as M. Clements. All rights reserved.