Reclaiming the Golden City

Still and sullen, they crowded around the fire, the seven that were left. The crackle of the burning wood was the music to which the smoke and flames danced, the only bit of joy to fend off the overwhelming darkness of the moonless night. The marshes were as still and quiet as the men, tendrils of fog creeping through the forlorn trees and around their legs, like some monster seeking to pull them off into the night. Doubtless, were that the case, none would resist. All spirit within the knights was gone this night, fled as surely as the sun giving way to evening.

Logan looked up, across the burning pit, to the brave warriors he once called his, though he wasn't certain he could say as much anymore. To his left, mighty Terris Valen, clad in burnished steel so finely polished it seemed to writhe with the firelight, a full suit of plate armor he wore at all times and kept in pristine measure. His face was well-groomed, even in this place, a long, trimmed mustache as dark as his smooth, neat, shoulder-length hair. His expression a mask of obstinate stoicism, as if to deny the truth of their loss.

Next to him, small Segrid Forras, a stark contrast. He wore only his oiled leathers, light and free, old but unscarred. His own face was unkempt, with days of stubble reaching over his mouth and chin like a shadowy hand, eyes wide and face gaunt as he wore a panicked expression; one would think that he was still running from the swords that had chased him from his home.

Beside him, cunning Allan Salis, his own armor an odd mix of plate, mail, and leathers, each one dressed in gilded scrollwork and shining jewels, beautiful to behold. Each one a prize he took from his victories. Clean-shaven with close, cropped hair as pale and golden as his armor, even his azure eyes seemed to sparkle like sapphires as he fretted over his packs, looking through the meager belongings he managed to grab before their exile. It was more than anyone else dared take in the frantic flight, but from the look on his face he had left too much behind.

Across the fire, a woman as lovely and dangerous as the flames, furious Merrious DeLoc. Hers was plain leathers and chainmail, as battle-scarred and weathered as she, without ornament or design. Her hair an auburn that she kept shorter than even the men she fought alongside. Unlike the others, she stood, pacing a rut into the peat with her heavy boots. Only occasionally did she deign cast a withering look at those around her, a burning in her forest-green eyes that had naught to do with the fire reflected there. She blamed them all for what had happened, Logan knew, but no more than she blamed herself.

Whatever energy she had, the one next to her lacked. Prudent Taegin Roth. Like Segrid, he wore only light leathers, but even so the weight of them seemed to crush him as if it had been the heaviest steel. Drawn and sallow, his elder face bore the weight of exhaustion, his long, white beard seeming to carry a weight to drag him even further down as he slumped against a log, sleep threatening to claim him. The ordeal had taken a lot out of the wizened man, in body as much as in spirit. It had been all they could do to carry him this far. How much farther could they ask him to go?

Logan almost feared to look upon the last man, sat directly to his right. If he feared reproach from any of the others, he was terrified of this one. Yet, as he looked, there was no hatred in Othar Malcolm's gaze, no pity, no condemnation. In that face that mirrored his own, there was only a hollow smile, small and wry. His brother had long warned Logan that this fate was fast approaching, that they would lose all they had gained, but hope had stayed him from heeding Othar's trepidation. He was right, in the end, and of all they had, now they kept only what they wore, and the old friends that had long been family to them. They both wore light, steel chestplates, over shirts of chain and suits of leather. Each wore a crown, identical as their faces and garb, forged of now-rotten gold and dull rubies. Yet, as they looked at one another, they never looked more different.

Being ran out from the city had taken a toll on all present, but Logan Malcolm bore the mark more than others. He had fought through soldiers he once called his own, through filth and fire, and where Othar was unsullied by fortune, Logan was not. His clothes and armor was stained with the blood of his former allies, chipped and scraped with their blades. Filth from the sewers clung to his breeches and leather leggings, and soot from the flames clung to him, making the bright metal seem black. His hair had been burnt off, scalp seared here and there from the touch of fire, and even his crown seemed marred for it. In turn of his thoughts, Othar grabbed his own crown from his head with a mailed fist, running a hand through his dark, long hair. It all seemed so vain now, so pointless. Never had Logan felt so unworthy of his Kingship. Of one mind, the Malcolms tossed their crowns into the fire, as meaningless as the ashes they nestled into.

The act had drawn eyes from all, even stilling Merri's anxious pacing, as they looked upon their old Kings, and even older comrades. Logan spoke, his voice absent of the proud timbre he once used in court. “My brothers... I beg your forgiveness.”

Merri scoffed and Othar's grim smile grew, the others seeming impassive. “Shove your apologies, Logan,” the lady knight, DeLoc made a gesture as obscene as her words, “right up your arse.”

“We all saw it coming, same as you,” intoned Taegin wearily, the effort of speaking even seeming too much for him, “yet we did nothing. We are as much to blame, if not more. What could we have done, after all?”

Eyes still wide and fearful, Segrid spoke tremulously. “Nothing. If we had done anything, it would've only been worse, in the end. We might have lost even more.”

“We've lost enough,” grumbled Allan, putting aside his packs.

“You all speak as if it was our fault.” Sir Valen said in his strong voice, straightening as he looked over each one in turn. “We were betrayed, all of us. We did nothing wrong. We served as best we could, and did as well as anyone could ask. Better, even. They were greedy, wanted more than was reasonable. There was nothing wrong with us, they were in the wrong.”

Othar remained quiet, which Logan cared for not at all. His silence was always an unsettling thing, if only for the hard words that eventually followed.

“It was our home.” Logan said at length. “We won it through blood and valor. The Golden City we'd fought all our lives to gain. A kingdom bought with our hard work, our sweat, our battles. We risked all to get there, a price we paid dearly.” He sighed, looking down into the embers before him, the dual crowns beginning to melt in the heat, rivulets streaming into dirt and ash. “If a kingdom falls, it is not its people that are to blame, but its rulers. My brother and I failed you. You placed those crowns on our heads and trusted us to hold our hard-won city. Yet, in the end, we were unworthy, driven out by the very people we swore to serve and protect.”

“He's right.” Othar finally spoke. “We were undeserving of them, and they of us.” Logan could not help a querulous look at his sibling, unsure of what he meant to say, but he had grown still once more.

With a stomp of her heel, Merri spat at the ground, giving sign of what she thought of their words. “Save your self-pities, all of you! What's done is done. So we've been ran out, lost all, what of it?! Do you mean for us to just sit in this swamp and argue about what went wrong or who's to blame?” Her fist curled in the air as she leant forward, staring daggers at the men. “Or do you want to find your balls, pick yourselves up, and go get back what we lost?”

“Yes,” Allan brightened, rising to stand next to her, his resplendent armor glittering madly as he moved. “We cannot accept loss. We earned our place, our lives, there. Let us not let it be stolen from us.”

“Are you mad?” Segrid shook his head, shaken at even the idea of it. “You would go back?! They tried to kill us! We would lose more than our homes if we went back. We would lose our lives as well! It's not worth the risk.”

“Nor do we have the strength.” Took up Taegin, looking up from his lying position on the sodden ground. “We are spent, beaten. Look at our good King Logan, he is wounded, burned, weary. As am I. We've been through too much. What strength do you think we have to begin our campaign again? No,” he all but sighed the word, “better to start anew somewhere else than to kill ourselves trying to reclaim the Golden City.”

“Cowards.” Sir Valen stood tall in his plate, moving to stand with Merri and Allan, making a cutting motion to the two men who spoke against the idea. “It is our rightful place. Sir Salis is right, we earned it. There are none more deserving of it, none who had fought as hard, or gone so far. We cannot fail. Not here, not now.”

“What if...” Othar said in near a whisper, the voice crawling between them with the writhing fog. “What if it was never right for us to begin with?” He looked right at Logan as he spoke, as if it were but the two of them. It was their way. Two minds that conferred and shared as one, sharing the same blood, the same fate. It was why they had both taken rule as Kings, each choice shared and agreed upon before being enacted. “What if the Golden City was never meant for us? There are other places, perhaps better suited to be our home. Why should we force ourselves upon a place where we do not fit? Why should we force it upon ourselves?”

There was a wisdom in all each one of them had said. Many times he had felt like he didn't belong in that gleaming kingdom, as if it was someplace made for other, better men. It was hard to believe oneself worthy of such a place, a paradise of wealth and comfort, where hunger and need was not known, and no man sought blood against the other in vain. Yet, was there not worth in simply trying? Perhaps they were not deserving after all, but they could be. Some part of Logan did not want to give up that dream, that hope that he could become the King they deserved. “... Let us try, once more.” He stood, strength returning to his voice, eyes hardening with resolution. “We did it before. We can do it again. And maybe, this time, we will find ourselves worthy. It is worth the try.”

With a heavy sigh, his brother joined him in standing, the seated others soon doing the same until the seven stood, bathed in firelight. As one, they agreed, “It is worth the try.”