Qing's Quest book 2, Chapter 7: Shadows at court

Qing stared at the shocked guards. He had to act fast to stop the situation from escalating. But he had a plan. “Stand aside and let us in,” he said, stepping towards the guard.

“Help!” the guard yelled, and it was echoed by others.

“You dare stand in the way of Chicago’s Envoy?” Qing asked, chin raised.

The man froze, and for a moment, his shouts silenced. “Envoy? From…Chicago?”

“Since entering your cursed land, we have been waylaid, openly attacked, and had our camels slain,” Qing said, raising the firebolt next to his face, bathing his features in the red light. “So we’ve watered the sand with buckets of blood, all to reach your king. From the kingdom of Illinois, in the empire of the United States of America, we have arrived.”

“I…I’ve never heard of neither Illinois nor the Empire of the United States of…America?” the guard answered.

Qing intensified his innate light, turning up the brightness until it pushed back the darkness, and the guards stepped backwards.

“I carry a message from the gods.”

“But, didn’t you say Chicago?”

“It is a blessed land. Now, lower your spears and take me to your king, or I will lower it for you.” He met their eyes one at a time. “I will not ask again.”

The guard looked back at his four companions and wet his lips, hesitating. “Uh…”

As he spoke, Qing dispelled his Firebolt and activated his sandal’s Flash ability. The air whistled, and he came out right in front of the guard, swiping his axe, cutting the spear in two. Before the man could react, Qing unequipped the axe, ripped the man’s shield away, and grabbed him by the front of his tan uniform. He stalked forwards, lifting the man one-handed.

“Take me to the court before I lose my patience,” Qing said, using the commanding voice he’d developed before the siege of Shadowgrove. The guard flailed against his grip, yelping in fright, and striking Qing in the face. Qing threw him at the wall with a grunt, where he collapsed to the ground.

The remaining guards lowered their spears and stepped forward, but a voice cut through the air. “Stop!” An older man stepped from a doorway, hand on the hilt of a sword. His voice demanded immediate obedience, like a drill sergeant, and they listened. “Put your weapons down,” he said. “If the foreigners want to see the king, let them see the king. It’ll be their wet socks.”

“Are you sure, Taaj?” a guard asked.

The man sighed. “No. But I don’t see another way to avoid bloodshed.” He glared at Qing, but when he didn’t back down, the man turned and walked away, waving for them to follow. “Fine. I’ll take you in, but don’t try to run.”

As they walked between the remaining spearmen, crossing beneath the tons of rock that separated the Gilded Hold from the desert, Qing thought of how he needed to be careful with his power. He stared down at the first guard, groaning as another helped him up. He’d just been doing his job, even if he had been rather rude.

“That was pretty hot,” Morgana whispered next to his ear.

Yes, it was. But Kaela would not have thought so.

He walked on, mixed feelings in his belly as goosebumps spread across his skin.

Inside, a street ran along the entire wall, wide enough for fifty men to march side-by-side, but once they crossed that, they passed into narrow streets that ran like a maze.

The buildings were all whitewashed, with blue roofs. Their guide refused all attempts at conversation, settling for urging them along with waves and glares. It took them nearly an hour of walking before they arrived at the walled palace grounds. The architecture of the city reminded Qing of Moroccan elegance blended with Egyptian grandeur, and the air was heavy with the smell of spices, the sea, and way too many people.

There was a stark contrast as they stepped through the palace gates, picking up an escort, ten men strong. They left the bustling streets behind and entered lush gardens where their footsteps reverberated off intricate mosaics.

The palace itself had straight walls, a flat, blue roof, and looked to be larger than the entire village of Shadowgrove. Near the back rose a lone tower, three times as tall as the building, overlooking the sea. Bathed in light, like the world’s most intricate lighthouse, yet Qing didn’t for a second think it was anything that mundane.

Morgana gaped as they crossed into the palace. The doors were so tall they’d dwarfed even Vileheart. Hanging carpets and painted portraits adorned the walls, and there seemed to be more gold than in Fort Knox.

Jenny sighed.

“What is it?” Qing asked.

“I’ve missed this place.”

“You don’t sound happy to be back,” Morgana said.

“I am not,” Jenny said. “But leave it. You will see soon enough.” A wistful smile tugged on her scars.

After becoming so thoroughly lost that Qing wondered if they were being led on for the fun of it, they arrived at a set of grand doors guarded by eight soldiers.

“Halt! What do you think you’re doing here?” a guard asked.

“Envoy for the king,” Taaj, their escort, answered.

“Don’t you know he’s—”

“I know. Believe me,” Taaj said.

“Well…it’s your funeral,” the guard said.

As they opened the door, the music they’d heard standing outside ratcheted up to eleven, seeming to flood out of the doors. It was a mixture of drums, flutes, and castanets, blending to form a heady atmosphere of a late-night bar. The throne room was lit with braziers, leaving shadows to dance everywhere, and the smell of incense lay heavy in the air.

Qing stepped forth, taking the lead, keeping his innate light shining brightly, pushing back the room’s shadows as he walked in. The room was vast enough to play football in, and with a high ceiling supported by towering stone columns. Arched windows sat high on each wall, giving a view of the starry sky. Tapestries and plush pillows filled the space between the columns, where noblemen sat or stood in groups. Each had a saber or curved dagger hanging from their belts, and wore slippers brocaded with metallic threads. Scantily clad women moved between them, their thin fabrics moving in the air. At each of the thirty-four columns, guards stood in pairs, clad head to toe in chain mail, armed with shields and spears.

Oh shit… We’re interrupting the king’s party. That’s bound to put him in a good mood…

All eyes were on him as he marched deeper into the room, and all conversation ceased. Qing focused on the king, sitting slumped on a massive throne made from red velvet and gold. Middle-aged, the king’s skin was pale, as if the desert sun hadn’t kissed it for years. His eyes were dark and deep-set, restless, scanning the assembly as if seeking something within the shadows. Despite being richly attired, his clothes were poorly fitted, like overweight wealthy second generation sons. Despite the crown adorning his head, he looked like nothing but a retired professional fighter who had spent his fortune on sex, drugs, and greasy food. Some people never had much vitality, but this was a man who once had plenty but had thrown it all away.

Qing’s mouth drew into a tight line as two young girls in see-through material draped themselves onto the king. It reminded him of Princess Leia if she had worn a see-through robe on top of the golden bikini. Halfway across the room, the king’s eyes had yet to focus on him, but movement to the left of the throne drew Qing’s eyes. There, among a mountain of pillows, lay a dark-haired woman, her ample hourglass figure wrapped in shiny golden cloth that clung to her body. He tried to avoid looking directly at the midnight black gem cut into the shape of a star, nestled snuggly in a neckline that rivaled the Grand Canyon. He met black eyes that glanced in his direction, but there was no response in them, as if he simply didn’t exist. They reacted to him, as he would have reacted to an uninteresting rock.

So that’s the queen. No wonder Knut struggled.

A towering man stepped forth from his place next to the throne and held up a hand, commanding them to halt. A leather-wrapped sword-handle stuck up over his shoulder, and he wore nothing but a piece of cloth wrapped around his waist. With muscles upon muscles, he looked a bit like Gronk, except this man’s eyes were sharp as daggers. “Remove yourself at once,” he said.

Taaj took a deep breath and bowed, nearly striking his head on the floor. “These men claim to be envoys from Chicago, the kingdom of Illinois, of the empire of the United States of America.”

The tower of a man paused, brow furrowing, and said, “Never heard of it.”

The guard straightened. “They refused to wait, and…I’m not sure we could have made them.”

The towering man’s eyes narrowed, and he stepped between Qing and the King. Qing met the man’s gaze until he nodded and snapped his fingers. All the musicians stopped playing on the same note, and the room fell into silence.

“You may prostrate yourself for King Sharyar, the ruler of Zylphadia, golden templar of the sun.”

Qing stepped forth and bowed, but as he did, the throne room filled with shocked whispers. He looked to the side and saw Knut, Jenny, and Morgana all kneeling, their foreheads touched to the floor.

Oh, well. A bit too late for that now.

And he remained standing, because if he was honest with himself, he didn’t feel like kneeling down to any man, let alone someone whose world he was trying to save.

“King Sharyar, thank you for seeing us. We have traveled far and share common enemies. Evil has entered your world, and I’ve come to rid you of it. We chase an evil bonecaller, last seen portaling into the Gilded Hold. Rufus Grimshaw is his name, and he plans to bring about the end of your world by summoning the devil.”

Gasps sounded from the gathered nobles, yet the king made no move.

“I’ve come before you to ask your support in finding this man and stopping him once and for all, before he dooms your world. If there is somewhere in private we can talk, I will answer any questions you might have and share the details of what I know.”

The king kept quiet.

This isn’t working. I need something to sway the situation. What do kings love?

Qing forced himself to stand still and not shift his weight under the collected stares. Suddenly, it came to him. Cliomatrix’s sword. It was a perfect match for the templar. A golden sword for a golden king.

“As a show of good faith,” Qing said, “I’ve brought a gift to you from my journey.” He was about to bring out the sword when a man stepped from the shadows behind the throne.

He wore a crimson robe that seemed to absorb the light, and moved with a grace that defied his apparent age, bending down to the king’s ear. With his pale skin and rich attire, he looked like a slimy, anorexic businessman. As he whispered, he turned his dark, penetrating gaze to Qing, and grinned.

“See, it is him,” he said, loud enough to be overheard. His voice surprised Qing. It was the smooth, deep voice of a professional blues singer, and had an immediate effect on the king. Sharyar’s eyes went wide, and for the first time reacted to their presence, raising a trembling arm to point at Knut. “You,” he said, shouting. “You villain. Defiler! I banished you. Guards, seize him, immediately.”

Qing jumped in surprise as the room filled with screams as seventy-two spear butts smacked into the marble floor in unison, and the guards stepped forward. “Told you this would happen, didn’t I?” Knut said as he placed his back against Qing before turning and smirking. “I am a tough man to forget.”