“General.”
“It’s General now, not father?” Dragh asked, standing next to the fire, holding his hands out.
Harin walked around the chairs to the back of the room, pulling his iron crown from his brow and placing it gently on the hook his grantfather had kept the crown on. The ware marks from where the iron crown had rocked back and forth from every king had worn into the stone where the hook had been installed. The crown was simple iron with points protruding from it around it’s circumfrence.
The edge of Fall was upon them, the hot summer days were turning now closer to the Car Launch Mountains.
Harin sat down behind his desk, a small thing covered in scrolls, quills and ink pots. The room was an offshoot of the throne room. A sitting room for the king to entertain and speak more privately with smaller parties.
The room hadn’t changed since Dragh was a boy. It looked as if his father had still been there. Stone walls with tapestries all around, a fire in the fireplace, the same marks on the desk from when he’d cut mark in the front of it with his first dagger.
Dragh looked over and smiled. “You know, your grandfather used to keep that thing just as messy as you. He knew where everything was, mind you.”
Harin sighed. “Where is Hemmelle? I saw Cello, Pello and Geral.”
Dragh grunted.
“My spies tell me that the sickness is getting worse. That the church is getting stronger up here.” Dragh said.
Harin laughed. “We have the same spies, General.”
Dragh looked at his son and shook his head. “You have 156, I have 127. Tasia has more than both of us.”
Harin nodded. “Where is Hemmelle General, my spies tell me he was spotted headed through the Car Launch going north?”
Dragh crossed the small study and sat in the high backed chair across from Harin. “Hemmelle is busy. Why are you putting up with this pretend church Harin?”
Harin looked down at his desk, realizing what was in front of him. The papers of requisition from his Praetorian Legion to the armorers in Landor. Anger filled him, bile in his throat. He squeezed his eyes shut, pulling the papers off his desk and pushing them into a drawer to deal with later.
“The pit with the Church son, they are a proxy, nothing more!”
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“Because the Church of Zufier is something that the people want Dragh. And I am their King. Who am I to tell them they cannot have it? You want a revolt in Landor?” Harin said, straining to keep his anger at bay, his tone even.
“They are a stain. Worse, a puppet of The Council.”
Dragh met Harin’s stare.
He knew his sons tricks. He’d taught them.
“The Council supports the Church. Nothing more.”
Dragh laughed. “You and I know that to be a lie. They infest cities, nations. They use the secrets of the people to control. It’s nothing more than a tool to them to complete their power.”
“They have the Compact, General. What more is there to it?” Harin asked.
“The Compact. You should never have signed it.” Dragh dropped his voice.
Harin sighed. “If you’d taken the crown from your father, you could have refused to sign it. In open rebellion against the Council.”
“I was in the south, avenging YOUR mother and brother.” Dragh closed his eyes and leaned back before looking at his son again. “You know why I will not wear the crown.”
Harin put his head in his hands, rubbing at his temples. “ I had no choice. You know that General.”
“General? What happened to father?”
Harin gave a dark chuckle and looked back up. “ What happened? I took the crown from your father. I took responsibility for the nation and all her people. That is what happened to father. Now get your Legion out of the south. March them home. I have work for the Dragon Legion and I want the Third Legion back in the north training the Tribes.”
Dragh stood. “Work for us? No. We have work. I am the commander of the Army of Landor. I will say where they go.”
“Not everything can be solved with a blade father,” Harin shook his head.
Dragh felt at his shirt, the lump under it assuring him. “You are more like your grandfather than you know son,” he muttered.
Harin rummaged around his desk, through the scrolls on top of it. Tossing one to Dragh.
Dragh caught the scroll, surprised by the throw. ‘What is this?”
Harin’s face went blank. “Your new posting.”
Dragh felt his hand tighten on the scroll, crumpling it.
“We will be in the south, I came to Landor to re-supply.”
Harin stood. “You will report to your post as your King orders you.”
Dragh could feel anger rising in his face. He kept it blank, like his son. He walked to the door, knowing that if he stayed, he would fight with his son.
“It is the Dragon Legion’s time to serve at Skellen Pass.”
Dragh stopped, part way to the door, his body tense.
Silence hung. Tense like the throne room.
Dragh willed himself to take another step. To go. To flee.
Skellen Pass. The Council’s stronghold.
“I did not sign the Compact. I will not take my Legion to the Pass. The Dragon Legion is mine to command. I am the sword of this nation son. Swords break when they bend too far. Do not ask me to do this thing.” Dragh said, his eyes closed, praying to the gods his son would see reason.
“I am not asking. I am commanding it be done.”
Dragh let his shoulders settle backm lifting his head up. “I will not abandon my quest to find your brother, your mothers killers. I swore to the gods, that I would serve justice to them. I raised the Dragon Banner.”
The Dragon Banner meant death to all who opposed the Dragon Legion. All of the nations knew that when Dragh’s Legion raised it’s black banner, The Blood Dragon on her banner meant death.
Dragh flexed his hand, the Blood Dragon peaking out from under his sleeve on the back of his hand. White scars criss crossed the tattoo. It’s red fadded, but still vivid and embedded in his skin.
“General.” Harin said, scorn in his voice.
“We leave tomorrow. We will return when I have my justice.”
“If you keep at this, I will loose the faith of the Merhcant Guilds. They want your head on a pike on the ramparts.”
Dragh stormed fromt he room, throwing the door open and slamming it behind him.
The two Praetorian on either side of the King’s study jumped at the sudden disruption, half pulling their swords form their sheathes.
“MOVE!” Dragh barked at them, not waiting to see if they heeded him.