Topic: Birth Order

Author: Chris Dunn

Kayless downed the powerful draught in a mighty swallow, choking only slightly on the bitter tang of bile which kresh always caused to rise in the back of his throat. He coughed and tried to pretend the ill omen had not occurred. This was not a time for hesitancy or doubt. The king, his father, was dead. This was a time for action. Now was the time to claim the throne which by rights should be his alone, but which due to the will of the gods, was now the glittering prize at the end of a most deadly game for he and his six brothers.

“Summon Ustiel!” Kayless ordered. He replaced the goblet on the tray, as the servant hurried to see to the command. The demon sorcerer would know how to proceed. The king had been in failing health for some time, and Ustiel likely has a variety of plots and plans already in place, simply awaiting this day to put them into motion. Kayless held no illusions. When he came to power, it would largely be due to his good choice of advisor.

Septuplets had been a quite the strain on the kingdom Malkenri. Seven vast manor houses, spread evenly throughout the capital, had to be built – each alike in dignity and worthy of a member of the royal family. Each brother had to be attended to by an equal staff of skilled servants, advisors and tutors. Seven equal stipends… Seven matching estates… The costs had nearly beggared the kingdom and put a tremendous strain upon the mighty empire’s citizenry. But all that would soon end. Now the great Game had begun, and with its inevitable end, Malkenri would once again be united. Their vast wealth concentrated once more under a single dread hand, Malkenri could again set its focus outward, toward conquest.

Kayless pondered which kingdom he would strike first. So many upstart nations had grown bold during the two decades it had taken for he and his brothers to come to maturity and for their father to finally pass. They had mistaken Malkenri’s  distraction for weakness. He would make them rue each offense once his armies were on the march. The royal tabulators kept strict records of every payment missed and every treaty ignored, the smallest of slights. All debts would be balanced soon enough, but first the Game.

Malkenri could have but one ruler. Sartan claimed his title was truest since, by report, he was firstborn. But birth order did not decide who would rule, might alone did. If it was strength at arms, Coraman would and should be king. He had spent his time building his body and training with all manner of weapons. Kayless would need to avoid giving any obvious offense which Coraman could use as cause for a dueling challenge. Belinine and Taggit would most likely take each other out of the running before the Game had reached its first year. They had long been at each other’s throats over a dispute concerning their bordering estates. Ustiel had warned that their enmity might be a ruse, but Kayless felt certain the fire was genuine. Dovamor would likely fall easily as well. He had wasted his time studying the black arts himself, failing to realize that they would take at least fifty years to master. He was barely a fledgling sorcerer and would be no match for one of Ustiel’s power.

And that was it, correct? Kayless counted them off and laughed at himself. Hathsin! He had nearly forgotten Hathsin. But no one would blame him. The fool had wasted his fortune on frivolous parties and sport. Days spent riding and hunting with sycophants and lesser nobles, and nights spent in deep debauchery with a scandalous parade of lovers. He had openly claimed that he had no interest in the throne, if it meant abandoning his lifestyle. Ustiel counseled that at least two of his brothers would move on Hathsin estate at the outset of the Game, and claimed it was a weak move. Seeking to claim an easy victory and expand their holdings, those involved would butt heads strongly and become easy pickings for those, like himself, with the wisdom to avoid the low hanging fruit.

Where was Ustiel? A queasy feeling gripped Kayless’s stomach. The sorcerers quarters weren’t that far from his own. The man should have arrived by now. Rather than summon another servant to gather him, Kayless set off on his own. As he moved through the quite halls of his manse, Kayless tried to reason what might have delayed his man. Surely, Ustiel had heard report of the King’s death. Perhaps he was simply gathering his demon-infused weapons and donning his armor. That was likely it. And it was simple nervous energy causing his heart to flutter.

Kayless gripped the knob of Ustiel’s door tightly to arrest a sudden tremble in his fingers. Inside the sorcerer lay sprawled in blood. His eyes staring vacantly at the nearby suit of ebony plate. A demon bound in physical form, the suit would turn away any blade not of similar origin, but its power was useless if one wasn’t wearing it. Looking at his dead advisor, the one who was going to lead him to victory, Kayless was suddenly terrified. How would he compete now? He would need to rethink his entire strategy. A wave of nausea washed over him and Kayless emptied his stomach’s contents on the floor. The drink burned even hotter on its return. The strength fled his body, and Kayless sagged against the doorframe, easing himself slowly to floor.

Something was very wrong! His legs were cold and his face was burning hot. He couldn’t stop his heart from racing. He cast about desperately looking for help. There! In the corner of the room, the serving girl he had sent to summon Ustiel. Using only his eyes, he pleaded for help. His voice had fled with his strength. Her hiding spot discovered, the girl stepped over to him. She held a knife in her hands, but a brief inspection of Kayless showed she did not need it. As she stepped over his paralyzed, dying body and raced down the hall, Kayless finally realized. The Game was begun, and he had already lost.