The king of Grundar wiped his sword clean on the dead Prophet’s cloak. The slain warrior who was so mighty in life looked tragically helpless collapsed on the steps before the king’s throne.
King Suldar Steel tried to put the blade into his scabbard, but his calloused hands shook so hard he nearly dropped the sword. He bit his lip, causing it to bleed as he gave up trying to put away the weapon, choosing to use it to lean on. A shudder went through his whole body as he stared at the dead man in front of him.
“Crush my strength,” he swore, breathing hard. “That—”
It was at this moment that the king’s aid, along with a company from the army, burst through the doors and into the throne room.
“Curse you and all your house, you pathetic swine!” the king roared at the frightened men. The dozen men in chain mail with short, broad swords searched around as if looking for foes, quickly spreading around the chamber. When they found the high, columned room empty, they looked in fear at the king, and in wonder at the body that lay before him. “Do you not know when your king is in danger?”
“Greatness,” the king’s aid said with a timid bow, “we came as fast as we could. All who could be summoned came to your aid. This was the closest group of soldiers to the Iron Palace. All others were killed in the attack.”
“And the Reds? Are all the Prophets dead as well?” the king asked, hunching down on his throne, exhausted. The throne was a gem-studded, metallic seat designed to look like the tip of a very wide sword, ending in a point that went up to the spot where the roof flew up vertically. Next to this seat was the empty queen’s throne, designed to look like a broad and sturdy shield.
“Yes, Greatness. Every man and woman carrying a Prophet blade was killed in the attack,” the aid said with a hint of sadness.
The soldiers in the room fidgeted awkwardly with the fear of men who had disappointed a very powerful king.
“And their leader now lies dead as well,” King Suldar said with a grin and a grunt.
The aid went over to look into the face of the dead man. Blood was drying in a small pool under his mouth, and it dripped into his tattered leather shirt as the aid lifted his head.
“Uldar. He was a very powerful man,” the aid said, cautiously placing the head down again, worried he might offend the dead Prophet.
“And is your king not powerful?” Suldar bellowed, rising from his throne in rage.
The aid said nothing. He did not mean to imply anything, but the king was always defensive in his pride.
“Put this filth on the spike,” Suldar commanded. “Let all see that this charge of blood accomplished nothing. Burn every body that carried a red weapon. I sup tonight to a feast of victory.”
The aid motioned for four soldiers to carry Uldar away. They picked him up, their mail clanking as they did, and they saw the fallen Prophet’s daggers lying on the steps where his body had been. They were simply lying on the floor, as if Uldar hadn’t dropped them when he died but had placed them there. The men wondered why this man, who was so strong and deadly, had died without his weapons held firm.
The king went over and picked up the twin blades, etched in crimson as if they were made of red steel. The king laughed as he looked at the powerful daggers. “Burn the banners. I don’t want the word Prophet ever spoken in this kingdom again. With them gone, nothing but the power of Grundar will remain in the people’s minds,” King Suldar said.
The men nodded as they dragged Uldar away.
“Foolish Uldar,” the king laughed. “But when you take the bodies, remove their weapons. I have a plan for them that will be a reminder to all other fools like this one, and of the greatness of this victory.”
The king laughed again, and exited his throne room through the now shattered wooden doors. Stepping over the corpses of his elite guards, blood running on their thick plate armor, he came to a balcony overlooking his city. He sighed, looking out at the sun as it disappeared over the arrogant land of Severdom, the last light glinting on Uldar’s red daggers.
“Pointless,” he said, and collapsed to his knees, weeping with gratitude at being alive.
“Uldar, this is absolute foolishness,” Grashic said, sitting next to the white seat of the leader of the Sevens Prophets.
Three seats, the places for the leaders of the three colors of the Sevens Prophets, and meant for those from Sevens, were carved in intricate patterns, the White with curves and spirit-like arches, the Gold with straight and rigid lines showing a stern solidness, and the Red with crooked and sporadic lines in a way that sometimes showed bursts and sometimes looked altogether unshapely. All were of their colors, and all were empty.
Grashic was a very powerful White Prophet. But she felt a little uneasy without Helensiv, the now absent Sevens-born leader of Triumph’s Whites, sitting by her side.
“Grundar is a wild land, its people warmongering and untamed. Let it do what it pleases,” Grashic pronounced.
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The lack of the leaders of the other colors worried her as well. And even more worrisome was that no one who wasn’t born on the planet Triumph was there at all. It was as if the planet had been abandoned entirely.
Uldar paced around the room with the six chairs placed in a semicircle. He could be sitting in his red seat, second in command of the Reds, but wanted to distance himself from the other two remaining leaders. There were many other Prophets of all three colors watching anxiously from the fringes of the room, spread out in a wide arc around the semicircular shallow pit where the leaders spoke.
“We were not given our powers to simply sit idly by and watch a nation destroy all the lands around it,” Uldar said as he paced around the shallow pit. “We must do something.”
Uldar was tall, an enormous man really, and when he pounded his large fist into his hand it made a smack that echoed through the high chamber.
“The Sevens Prophets came to this planet long ago, Uldar of the Red Prophets,” Boric, leader of the Golds and sitting in his golden seat, said. “In their wisdom, they sought the most powerful of nations, Severdom, as their focal point to unite this world. They then enlisted us, the people of this planet, from the reclusive Gale forest-dwellers to Nardor seamen, to Severdom itself to aid them.”
Uldar paced around, shaking his head as Boric raised his voice. The Gold Prophet was nearly as powerful as Uldar and as immovable as a mountain when he set his mind to something.
“Now those from the planet Sevens have gone,” Boric continued. “We don’t know why, but it matters not because their goal was achieved. Maybe they left because they met this goal, but regardless, Severdom has broken off its warpath of conquest and slavery. They now seek the arts, education, and technology, a path the Sevens Prophets are here to encourage not rebuke.”
“I rebuke it because Grundar is on the path Severdom just left!” Uldar said. He heard faint gasps and a few angry grunts from a few Whites and Golds in the crowd. “Have you ever been to Grundar? Have you seen the things that they can do, the potential they have?” Uldar spread his arms wide and looked around the room, challenging the Prophets to listen.
Silence met him as people embarrassedly turned away. Uldar was the last living Prophet from Grundar. The other, Beddun, a Gold, died putting himself between the Severdom army and a small village on their warpath.
“No, I thought not,” Uldar said. “The original Prophets who came here to give us our power are gone. We can’t avoid that. But we can’t give up on Triumph and every nation besides Severdom just because they have left. That’s foolish and cowardly.”
“Are you calling me a coward?” Boric asked, stern as iron as he slowly stood.
“If you are content to stay in this land and read books while Grundar conquers the rest of the world then yes, you are a coward!” Uldar replied.
Shouts erupted from the Golds. Yet these came from the younger ones. The older, more powerful Golds sat as still and unmoved as their leader.
Grashic raised her hand to silence the men and women shouting as a few of the Reds defended their leader as well. “We do not know what the Sevensians would have done,” she said. “They have disappeared and left us to fend for our own. We can only assume that they would have encouraged the path of peace in Severdom, as we have done with them for centuries.”
“And leave Grundar to threaten that peace?” Uldar said, shaking his head and pounding his fist again.
“Grundar is not of our concern, young warrior,” Grashic said with all the calm sternness of a Gale grandmother. “And I will not have you and your host waste your lives on foolishness. If you do wish to go into Grundar, then you will do it on your own.”
Uldar’s hand twitched. He yearned to twirl his daggers, a nervous twitch he’d never broken. But drawing a weapon would not send the right signal.
“Grundar may become strong one day,” Grashic continued. “But those savages must fend for themselves while we keep the peace here. This is why the king changed the name of this land to Severdom. No longer tied to the conquests it had as Verland, it has severed itself from the wars of the rest of the world.”
Uldar breathed deep and looked around at the many Prophets seated around him. They were all strong. Many were seasoned warriors and diplomats. Many Uldar had fought alongside in the struggle to stop Severdom’s wars. Selin, the White Prophet with orange-hued hair, had been his partner when he went before the king to stop the invasion into southern Nardor. Now that those wars would be forever ended, he knew he had to shift to stop Grundar’s lust for conquest.
“Grundar will become strong,” Uldar said. “There is courage and a will to control in all the people of the city of Steel. And they will grow. They will make a war of unification on all the lands of our planet like Severdom once did. And when they’ve taken all kingdoms near them, they will strike at peaceful Severdom. They will destroy Meric’s wall and make Severdom pay for the arrogance of their ancestors. Grundar will make Severdom’s wars seem like a holiday. Severdom is a foolish and arrogant name.”
“No man or woman has the gift of foresight, Uldar,” Boric said, unimpressed by Uldar’s passionate speech. “And the wild peoples near Grundar can never be united as you say. Peace can never come there no matter what we do.”
A young Red Prophet, given his red axe not two years prior, stood and shouted, “You give up too soon! Sevens Prophets help all those in need!”
Boric showed no sign he’d even heard this interruption.
“He’s right,” Uldar said. “And it doesn’t take any more than common sense to see what lies ahead for Grundar.”
“The Golds and the Whites have made our decision. We will not support you in this endeavor. If you wish to approach Steel City, then you will do it on your own. We cannot risk ignoring Severdom,” Grashic said without emotion.
Uldar walked toward Grashic, trying hard not to clench his fist. “The king of Grundar has refused to see me for months. You know this,” Uldar said, a last, desperate plea for help. “I need the Whites.” Now he went to the center of the chamber, scanning all the uncaring Golds and Whites, and his followers of passionate, eager Reds. “If you won’t help us, by either escort or shifting us in there as I’ve requested, then we have only one choice to convince the king of his wrongs. All willing Reds will join me in a charge on the city of Steel.”
Complete silence followed as the echo of Uldar’s cry faded.
The Reds waited for a response, maybe a sign they’d be helped. The Whites and Golds merely crossed their arms and waited for Uldar to recant his foolishness.
“I’ve done all I can to convince you then,” Grashic said with a tone of sadness. “Please, Uldar, listen to reason. This is a pointless and desperate act that will lead to nothing but death. Stay here where you can help.”
Uldar stood still, thumbing the hilts of his twin daggers, eager to leave. Grashic sighed and paused in thought, staring into Uldar’s rigid and steady gaze and hoping he’d see the pain he was causing.
“But,” Grashic said, “if a charge on Steel is all you can see, then you will all die alone.”
“Very well then. This will be our last meeting, brothers and sisters. May the three powers be with you all. And may history forgive the one of us who is wrong,” Uldar said, and left, stepping quickly and thumbing his daggers.
The Red Prophets followed him out. The younger ones eyed the Golds and Whites with anger and disgust. The older ones simply walked out as if this was expected, which it was.