Chapter 11

Starhaven, Kingdom of Sidor

Serwyn stood on Market Road, his eyes fixed on the execution platform sitting in the center of the wide road, which, from the bustling Merchants’ tier to the Nobles’ tier, was now lined with grim-faced guards holding back the swelling crowd.

On the platform, Baron Thurston waited, guards on either side of him with his hands shackled, his noble finery stripped away. The man’s face was gaunt from his time in the dungeons, but he was still appeared pompous and defiant to Serwyn, and his lip curled in disgust. The former baron wouldn’t be anything in a few minutes, he thought.

In front of him, the executioner waited, flanked by more guards. A sea of faces stretched down the road toward the Peasants’ quarter and to either side into the Merchants’ tier, as far as the eye could see. He could feel their bloodlust, their eagerness for death. This was how it should be! The rabble clamoring for justice, anxious to see the king’s will done!

With everything in place, Serwyn raised his hands, causing the noise of the crowd to drop, his people waiting to hear from him. Waiting for the command to remove Thurston’s head. Serwyn smirked. This far from the Lindenwood, it was unlikely any of the peasants knew who Thurston was, aside from the gossip that made the rounds during his trial. They were here for the spectacle.

He had tried to explain to Edmund that this was one of the benefits of this execution. Aside from ridding them of a nuisance, it fed the crowd. An entertained mob was a controlled mob.

“People of Starhaven,” Serwyn began, speaking as loud as he could, trying to copy his father’s commanding presence when he gave speeches. “You stand witness today to the price of treason against the crown. Ivorn Thurston, once a baron, given rights and titles and the command of the Lindenwood to rule in the name of the crown, betrayed not only his king but the very legacy of the ancients we are sworn to uphold.”

He paused for dramatic effect, the way his father and Uncle Edmund would do.

“This man before you led an uprising against the rightful rule of your king. He sowed discord among the nobles, undermined the laws of our land, and sought to tear apart the very fabric of our kingdom. Such actions cannot and will not be tolerated. The punishment for treason is death, as it has always been.”

Serwyn pointed to Thurston, down on the platform. The guards forced the baron to his knees, pushing him forward so that he fell on the block. With his hands shackled behind him, there was no way to brace himself, no way to push himself off the block.

“Let this serve as a lesson to any who would challenge the authority granted to me by the ancients themselves. I am your king, chosen to lead and protect this realm. Those who stand against me stand against Sidor itself, and they will fall. The sentence will now be carried out. May the ancients have mercy on his soul, for I shall have none. Executioner...”

Thurston, his face smashed against the block, shouted, “Don’t be fooled by his lies! It was this king who had your children crying from hunger because of his grain tax! It was this king who had your neighbors dragged from their homes for daring to speak against him?”

Serwyn fumed.

“Guards...”

Thurston wasn’t finished, however. “Where are your families now? Do they rot in cells or lie in unmarked graves? The ancients did not choose this cruel boy. They would weep to see what he’s done in their name. He...”

“Enough!” Serwyn roared, his face flushed with rage. “Executioner, do your duty! Now!”

The executioner stepped back, lifting the ax far above his head, both hands to the haft. The weapon arced down, smashing into the block with a sickening thud, cutting off Thurston’s words and sending his head rolling over the side, dropping into the basket placed there to collect it. His body, no longer balanced, flopped forward and over.

The crowd roared, but not in excitement and bloodlust as Serwyn expected. The words that had held them enthralled finally sank in, their amusement turning to fury. Cries, accusations, and insults were hurled in Serwyn’s direction.

As if to add injury, of sorts, to the insults, a boy, no more than ten, broke free from the crowd. He was so small that the guards ignored him at first, until the boy whipped his arm up, a jagged stone clutched in his grimy fist.

The projectile never reached its mark. A guard surged forward with surprising speed, his mailed fist catching the boy’s wrist mid-throw, twisting it brutally. The stone clattered to the cobblestones as the child cried out in pain and fear.

“You little shit,” the guard snarled, bringing his club down hard across the boy’s shoulders.

The crack of wood on flesh was lost in the rising roar of the mob, but Serwyn saw the child crumple like a puppet with its cut strings. The guard dragged the limp form away, leaving a smear of blood on the stones.

Instead of taking care of the problem, the guard’s defense of his king made things worse. People were shouting, pointing at the boy’s body. Word traveled quickly, the crowd’s anger, already palpable, erupted into something primal and terrifying.

“Go. Stop them. Don’t let them...” Serwyn began to yell at the guards, pointing at the surging crowd, when a hand closed around his arm.

“Your Grace,” Edmund said, leaning in close, to be heard over the shouting. “We should return to the palace. Now.”

Serwyn opened his mouth to protest, but Edmund’s grip tightened ever so slightly. The crowd, held back only by the line of increasingly nervous-looking guards, was murderous, and his bravado crumbled.

“Y-yes,” Serwyn stammered, allowing Edmund to lead him away.

“Clear the way. Use whatever force is necessary,” his uncle said to the guard commander, who saluted, barking orders to his men.

The guards waded into the crowds, clearing a bloody path.

Brigwyn, Stormhaven, Sidor

Garris paused for a moment, steeling himself for what he was about to do. He could hear the huge crowds outside of the keep, their individual conversations melding together into a wave of noise.

The center of Brigwyn, a large open square used for public events, was packed, people spilling into the side streets in all directions. It wasn’t unusual for Brigwyn to be full this time of year. Reliquary was one of the biggest holidays across the kingdoms of the Shattered Lands, with the exception of Thay, although those festivities were usually directed from the Hall of the Ancients across the square and not his keep.

But word had gotten out. Thurston’s execution was the biggest news in Sidor since the war with Lynese began. The peasants’ revolt had been noteworthy, but peasants revolted from time to time. Usually not quite as successfully, but it was only an escalation, not something new.

It had been over a decade since the last time a noble was executed. But it was more than that. Thurston had been publicly cited as having been behind the peasants’ revolt. To have a noble fund an uprising of peasants was unheard of.

With the removal of Ivorn’s head, Edmund had thrown down the gauntlet, all but declaring war on barons who did not fall in line. And everyone knew that Garris was at the top of the list of barons who had would not kneel. Gossip was running rampant across the kingdom, but nowhere as much as inside the borders of his own barony.

When word went out that there would be an announcement, people began flocking to the city square, well before that announcement was set to take place, to ensure they were given seats. The crowd grew by the hour, until it seemed as if his entire holding had come into the capital to hear what he had to say.

And they would.

Garris took one last deep breath, looked to the allies who’d joined him for this moment, in a show of solidarity, and stepped out onto the balcony.

It was still cold, with chill winds coming off the Frozen Sea and down the straits, but Garris refrained from bundling up. His people needed to see him. He could stand some chill.

The guards had pushed the crowds back slightly to make room for nobles from Stormhaven and across Iron Keep, and even representatives of the duke himself.

Filing out behind him were the barons of the Darien Coast, Delaney Heights, Eastlake, Yarwell, and Wooten, sending a ripple of excitement through the crowd. It was rare to see so many barons gathered together outside of the capital, and with the rumors swirling around, their appearance essentially made the announcement before Garris could.

Garris raised his hand, and a hush fell over the crowd.

“People of Stormhaven, lords and ladies of Iron Keep, I stand before you today with a heavy heart and burdened by a great purpose. You have all heard the news from Starhaven - the unjust execution of Baron Ivorn Thurston, a man whose only crime was to speak truth to power.”

A murmur passed through the crowd, although if it was in anger or support, it was hard for Garris to tell.

“This act is but the latest in a long line of offenses perpetrated by the boy who sits upon the throne. I say boy, for Serwyn Whitton has proven himself no true king. He is a tyrant, unfit to rule, who has abandoned every principle of just governance that his father, the good King Gavric, held dear.”

He paused again for dramatic effect.

“Serwyn Whitton cares nothing for the welfare of his people, be they noble or common. He has raised taxes to crushing levels, treating the very lifeblood of this kingdom as his personal coffers. He passed laws unheard of in our history, telling the people where they could travel, who they could sell to. He has allowed his lackeys to abuse and terrorize innocent subjects, trampling the rights that have been enshrined in our laws for generations. Does this sound like a king who holds the trust of his people? Does this sound like a ruler fit to sit upon the throne of Sidor?”

The people were already wrapped up in the speech, and the call for them to participate, to vent their anger, was met with a chorus of no’s.

“I hold no hate for the boy. If he was a true king, I would follow him as I have followed Whittons all my life. But I cannot follow him because I know the truth. He was too young, too unprepared for the duty that fell so suddenly to him with his father’s passing, and he has failed in taking his father’s place. Instead, he has become a puppet, controlled by corrupt advisors who seek only to enrich themselves at our expense. And I do not bow to the men behind him, the men who truly sit on his throne. I say to you now that I will not follow the rule of men not anointed by the ancients. Men who have chased power and position until the opportunity came for them to gain control over a weak child unprepared for rule. I hold to the true ideals of our great kingdom, to the legacy that stretches back a millennium to a time when magic lived and the world was whole. Kings are appointed not by men, but by our ancestors, through the last remnants of their power. The men who control the boy, they were not appointed. They were not selected. They were not chosen. And I will not stand for it.”

Mention of the taxes and the laws against peasant travel that had been so widely hated that they caused common farmers and blacksmiths to march to Starhaven and put it under siege, were enough to work up the crowd. But giving them a reason why disobedience against the crown was not only just, but the true and only path to following the will of the ancients was like releasing steam from a kettle.

The people screamed and cheered, cursed and jeered.

“My friends, my countrymen, the time has come for all true Sidorians to rise up against this unjust and false king. I call upon every man who values honor, justice, and the welfare of our people to rally to your lord. I call on you to join me as we retake our kingdom and right these wrongs. For the ancients! For Sidor!”

The roar from the crowd was deafening. Men thrust their fists into the air, chanting Garris’s name. Women wept and embraced their neighbors.

Garris held up both hands, letting his people see him. Cheer him. And then he retreated back into his keep, waving the other barons with him. The din of the gathered masses faded as they entered a private chamber and shut the heavy door behind them.

“My lords,” Garris said, turning and facing the gathered men. “I thank you for standing with me today. The risk you have taken is not lost on me.”

Brian Thornbrook, the gruff Baron of Darien Coast, snorted. “Risk? Edmund Whitton declared war on us all when he had Thurston’s head lopped off. It was either take a stand or bend our necks like that poor bastard did.”