"What you are talking about is outright treason, Corbin! I, more than any, wish to have my voice heard by the King and the voices of all the people, but we cannot resort to such barbaric methods!" A man of five and forty spoke vehemently, his plump, regal face contorted with a mixture of shock and disgust.

  His reaction caught the moods of the various men about the upper tavern room. Some twenty men were packed into this room. There was a large dining table with seats for only ten. The rest stood around the edges, mostly commoners by their hardier clothing, while the nobles and wealthy sat. Three small windows lined the western side of the room, shuttered to mitigate the blistering sun and the chance of being heard.

  Corbin responded without many of the general courtesies to be paid to any lord. "Is not the very nature of our revolution treason? Yet, it's only treason if we fail, if we are caught and hanged. Why should you be so opposed to this manner of action, Lord Gawn? It is certainly effective. Besides, we have not the army necessary to wage open war against the King. Yet. Chivalry has no place amidst the intrigues and necessities of war, and this is war!"

  Corbin was a man of hardly thirty. While in no way noble, merely the lowborn son of a Highland blacksmith, he had managed a place of worth by sheer force of personality. He was of average height and build and wore a rough leather tunic underneath a regal cloak of black with a dragon emblazoned upon its back. The real wonder that set him apart from the lords of this place were his hands, scarred with burns and cuts, marred with callouses, and larger than seemed appropriate to his stature.

  "There is no honor in this! How can one hope to command the proper allegiance of a people if one gains power through brutality and... assassination?" Lord Gawn struggled mightily to pronounce the final word. His mouth filled with bile, as if he had bitten something rotten. He spat on the wood floor of the upper tavern room and eyed Corbin. His fellow nobles were conspicuously silent.

  "Oh honor this and honor that!" Corbin gave a careless wave of his hand, as if shooing spectral flies. "What good has it done you thus far, Lord Gawn? Your lands are all but stripped of you. Your wealth has been siphoned away bit by precious bit over the centuries that the Kings of Shir have ruled. They demand tribute and maintain a massive army for what? What need is there for such a force that 50,000 strong live in the southern training stronghold alone, and three or four times that spread out across the kingdom, all drawing payment for what?! Most of them spend their waking hours whoring, drinking and causing the very mischief that they are said to be there to defend us from. Have you forgotten why we are here, my Lord?"

  Corbin swung his body outward, pivoting on the back of his chair and held out both hands as if to embrace the remainder of the room, "Have you all forgotten as well? We are not playing at war, nor do we wish to usurp a throne. We want self-rule and freedoms. We desire to the utmost the rule of the people, and for kings and queens and nobility to fade into the mists beyond the Veil, taking a part in history but never again ruling history!" He stood from the table, his voice getting louder, "What is the cost of freedom, my lord, nay my friend? Is it worth your pride and your self-righteous honor? Is it worth the lives of young men who might be called upon to fight for you?" Here he pointed with his whole hand, cradled underneath as if to hold up the clearly less fortunate among them that lined the edges of the room. Plainly dressed men carrying simple weapons. "You are willing to shed blood, but not noble blood in your idealistic notion of revolution! Is not this revolution, is not freedom itself worth the cost of royal blood? Or shall we, after many a year of trial and hardship raise an army of peasants to be slaughtered and die for our whims just as so many lowborn have died for the sake of the current King? Will we begin our reign by defecating upon our own spoken belief that all men are equal and send some more easily to meet the Visage? Do you not all agree? Shall we spill the blood of thousands or take this revolution into our own hands and save the lives of many by taking the life of," and he paused for effect as he leaned in, one hand resting on the table as he made a sign with his index finger and continued, "one King, who truly is nothing more than a man, no better than us in any way? What say you?"

  Of those with seats at the table only Corbin was lowborn. Only he had never tasted the spoils of wealth or the avaricious nature of power. Now, in this upper room, this blacksmith's rhetoric swayed men's hearts, and the more he spoke the more they seemed to listen. Faces rose, nods of assent took the wings of the room especially, like a social tick.

  A man called Eskin Marrak stood straight from his leaning position against a far wall, his dark traveler's cloak shrouding much of his form, but he was tall and slender. A simple military sword hung from a common leather belt around his waist. His eyes flashed a wolfish amber penned in by ornate tattoos, and he spoke up, "Assassination is a coward's ploy, Corbin. Effective though it may be. Furthermore, how would you propose to find an assassin willing to go after the King of Shir. Who would even be capable of such a thing?" A knowing smile crossed his face as he said this, his tone betraying hardly hidden laughter as he settled back in against the wall, crossing one foot over the other and relaxing as if nothing else need be said.

  A wealthy merchant from the capitol chimed in, "I agree with the boy, brash though he may be. We must be willing to do all that is necessary. Yet this equality business is most jarring to be sure, am I to gather that no one man should ever be considered better than another? It is a very strange and, if I may also be brash, absurd ideal that all men are somehow equal. Deserve equal rights perhaps, that I could abide, but to say we are all equal is foolishness only brought on by the mind of naivety."

  Corbin did not even attempt to conceal his contempt allowing scorn to scar his features for a moment, before sitting down, allowing others to join the fray.

  Another man stood. He wore long, flowing robes of a deep purple, and a high crowned headdress, ornate in style. On his chest was embroidered a shadowy form holding a scythe in one hand, and a set of measuring scales in the other. As the man moved, the phantasm seemed to move with him as if it were alive. He cast his words upon the table, a haunting, ethereal wind of sounds, "Those of us here, now, in this place. We are they whose actions and desires are most vital to the cause. And so, it would be only right, that we, here, be the ones with the highest reward for our services. I have pledged by the Night, and the Black Sands of Noctarian that we will see this King removed and restore a time of freedom. No oath by his name may be broken." Almost as an aside, with a non-chalant wave of his hand and the rising of his chin, the Priest closed his eyes and added, "Assassination will do, in my mind. The Night comes on all. The manner is unimportant."

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  Speaking from his seated position, a calm repose in his features, Corbin responded. "High Priest Khu, your support is appreciated, though what greater reward is there than freedom for the people? Certainly all men truly are equal." You do not consider yourself equal to them. Self-delusion is the most dangerous of lies, young Corbin. The Dragon's guttural utterance resonated in his mind and shocked him into silence.

  With his careless pretense, Ahmose Khu spoke, "Equal in death."

  Lord Gawn spoke calmly, standing in a pained manner, an attendant behind him helping him to his feet, "Regardless, if we start down this road then what is to stop us from becoming monsters, less than men in honesty. If we are willing to say that 'for the greater good' we will stoop to covert murder, then what is to stop us from doing the same when power comes into our hands?" He looked at Corbin, but then let his gaze sweep to each man in the room, locking eyes with each. "Will we then lay down this 'ends justify the means' mentality? I fear, my friends, that we are in danger of becoming not mere revolutionaries fighting for the good of the common man, but murderous scoundrels. It is not the manner with which to take power. Someone must be sent to the King. Negotiation should be first, especially with our gaining immense support around the provinces. Perhaps he will see reason and begin a legal process of giving rights to the people when he knows of the far-reaching spread of revolutionary ideals. We cannot resort directly to this savagery." A general feeling of consensus swept through the room, but Corbin fumed, and the High Priest merely smiled, the curl of his lips derisive.

  Straining to smile, Corbin assented, "May it be as you men have said, send whomever you like to speak to King Theon IV, but when it fails please be so kind as to reconsider my offer." With that he left the upper room of the tavern and headed downstairs, rage swelling within him. The owner was sweeping up and re-organizing chairs around tables while a waitress cleaned the mugs in the back. Soon they would open for the nightly wave of revelers trying to escape their mundane day to day with a few choice draughts.

  Horrid fools! Corbin thought, barreling across the empty room toward the exit. Do they think the king will so easily relinquish the power he has? The Dragon's teachings are irrevocable as always. Men's weakness will stop this revolution from occurring. Men lack the fortitude to do what is necessary to combat evil. Sometimes, to fight a monster one must become one! It is only logical. And then a thought slipped into his mind, sly as a snake it wormed its way into his brain and began to unravel. You do not need their permission. Indeed you do not need their permission at all, you only need their money. A wry grin crossed his face as he continued out into the bright sun. Noon, he thought, what a strange time to talk of treason.

  #

  "I do not trust that man..." Lord McCrae the Younger said, his eyes flashing with a mixture of fear and resolve.

  The sitting room in Lord Gawn's manor was filled with dusty tomes lining the walls and stacked precariously on rotting bookshelves. Only the semblance of wealth remained, its phantasmic remains in the masterful tapestries, now besotted with years of unattended dust. A large mahogany desk sat in the far Eastern corner under a broad, high window so it could catch the light from the dawn, the time when Felix Gawn thought most clearly. Strewn parchments with maps of the regions, his notes from countless meetings, and a large book of histories were interspersed with spilled ink stains, scattered quills, dry spots of wax from poorly pressed seals, and money ledgers all showing negative.

  Lord Gawn stood over the desk and examined its contents as if trying to divine the future, "Nor I, Eoin, but he is the most pure among us as for his desires." Lord Gawn looked worn, his face pale with the exertion of walking from the inn to his local home, but his mind was bent on his divinations, "He is a true believer, which is a dangerously unstable thing. He will do absolutely anything to make the world he envisions a reality, and so will almost certainly ruin it, or himself, in the process."

  "We should be rid of him." Eoin McCrae stood behind Felix a few paces, his hand resting on his sword. A quick squeeze of the hilt accompanied his words.

  "He is a man of the people and despises the wealthy, can you blame him?" Felix still poured over the contents of his desk, flipping a page as he spoke, "He has walked paths so very different from ours. Yet, he is so useful, and I hope he will be the one to truly lead this uprising. A leader who does not believe in his direction is merely a charlatan. For good or ill, that man is no charlatan. He will lead them and with conviction that only stems from certainty. We just need to give him some guidance along the way." Felix let out a long sigh and looked up, gazing through the East facing window as if peering across the continent. "He may not listen to us, but when Haman returns, we may have a chance."

  "As you say, Lord Gawn." Eoin's voice betrayed not a little skepticism, "I must hasten to the Forge. We have many recruits to train and not much time. I will send them South as soon as they are old enough to join the main forces, and some to your personal retinue as well. We are getting closer, closer to the support we need."

  Felix looked back down at the desk, paused a long while, and closed the book in front of him. Turning to Lord McCrae, "Aye, but we need more time. I shall go myself to the Capitol and entreat the King. I think I still have enough pull with some of the council members, and, despite what many may think, he is not so unapproachable after all."

  "Do as you like, Lord Gawn. I will continue my part, but make no mistake," Eoin's sword hand flexed again, this time the knuckles blooming white against his already pale skin, "I will end Corbin's pretensions in a moment if he becomes a liability."

  "He's not the only one who is brash, Eoin." Lord Gawn moved and placed his hand on the younger lord's shoulder, "Bide your time, my young friend. Patience is a deadly skill. Hone it."

  Lord McCrae the Younger's face fell for a moment but then hardened as a reflex. He nodded and walked away.

  Felix Gawn stood alone in his decayed mansion, shook his head, and thought of his sons. Perhaps yours will be a better world.