The Column of Ash [Epic Fantasy]

Laczlo stared down at the body of Tsar Radokh Vadoyeski, only the second of the Vadoyeski dynasty. He was not a handsome man, and death certainly did him no favors. His entire body was wrapped in oiled strips of linen, both for modesty and to hurry along the fire when he was placed upon the pyre. But his face, Dues, his face… Maybe it was just Laczlo's imagination, but he looked so remorseful, so lost.

Is that how I look to others? A confused, saddened corpse of a man? he thought, feeling particularly morbid and depressed. Nothing had happened as he wished it. The Vadoyeski family was going to be hidden away in the Column, their right to rule already publicly abandoned, and their oaths of loyalty sworn to Laczlo. Varul even had Alasa hand Laczlo the tsar's sword before she renounced her claim to the throne of Vasia. She seemed calm, almost, as she did it, looking him in the eye without hate or malice but with broken pride and a dazed sadness. It crushed him. And then he had to watch as she ushered away the children to their imprisonment. His gaze lingered on the tsarevich, Amon. The boy who was destined for so much, brave and intelligent for his age, tossed aside with his birthright sundered. They couldn't even keep their holdings in Vadin, for they now belonged to Laczlo, for leaving them such a power base would only undermine the tsardom, he was told. And so, suddenly, he would be the lord of Vilsi, but Vadin and Nova, catapulting his position in wealth, power, and warriors.

But if Alasa took the change of fortunes cooly, Amon was the opposite. He glared at Laczlo with undeniable fury and spite. It was enough to make him want to turn away in discomfort, but Laczlo owed them more than that and watched them depart the ceremony, escorted toward the Column to be entombed with the catacomb bones, locked in cells with priests. And, as much as he hated to admit it, he hoped he would never hear from them again. That look… He'd shivered inside, fearing the day that boy became a man.

There was no making it right. No fixing it. A spear was thrust in his hands, and an enemy pointed out ahead. All Laczlo could do was march into battle, dutiful and brave as he could be.

But before he could become tsar, he had to see the body burned. It was his last task as a voivode. Last task as a man. And then he would become something more.

Footsteps rang aloud in the quiet stone chamber of the tsar's palace in Nova. Laczlo looked up from the corpse's face toward Vicarr Varul, striding across the room to stand beside him, frowning down. Varul still bore a scattering of small scars from his fight in the Column, long ago now, and when he spoke, one could see the few missing teeth. Still, he had an odd, exceedingly plain, narrow face and unremarkable appearance otherwise. It was unsettling and likely had to do with the fact of his… resurrection or whatever it could be called. It all lent to a rather unsettling look that made Laczlo feel predisposed toward suspicion.

"A new tsar is given time for reflection, but too long, and the people doubt his decisiveness," Varul said, voice a respectful whisper. Not for the dead tsar, certainly, but maybe for the tradition itself.

Laczlo sighed. "Yes, I suppose you're right. No going back anymore."

"There was no going back long ago, Voivode Vilsky."

"Well, it's my last moment as a free man, you see? As someone other than the tsar." He looked at Varul, searching for empathy there in the odd priest's eyes. He still didn't know if he could trust this man. "I'm not ready for this… Whatever you say. Whatever you think."

"The Vasian Tsardom is no humble title. You are wise to fear it."

He shuddered at the weight in the other man's words. The fervent seriousness and gravity. "Do you really think I will be good for Vasia? Or are you just placing your bet on me because you think I'm more easily manipulated than anyone else?"

"We could have chosen a child, Voivode. No, we do not believe you are more easily manipulated than the young Amon." He turned to fully face Laczlo, hands clasped before him, fingers interlocked, peering with narrowed, intense eyes. "You don't trust us. Perhaps that is wise, even if counterproductive to our efforts. As we have said, we care about one thing above all: Vasia. The Column's authority and guidance are essential to see it survive, even in these barbarous, heretical times." Something flickered in his gaze. A certain sharpened watchfulness. "You promised us you would not seek to weaken the Column or promote your faith as tsar. And while you are an honest man, we know matters of faith have a tendency to supersede oaths. But as long as you keep by your word, yes, we believe you may strengthen Vasia more than any feasible tsar."

On the journey to Nova, they'd spoken much, discussing the near future and more distant plans. And one thing Varul was adamant about was not letting Laczlo's faith humiliate the Column and weaken it. An odd demand, for if he were given a choice, no one would know about his beliefs, let alone a whole tsardom. But he supposed the cat was out of the bag on that matter.

"If you say so," he muttered, looking down at Radokh's body once more. It was still just too hard to believe what was happening. He was to be the tsar of all of Vasia? After all his effort spent defending Radokh, the man just dies of poison from some eastern spy? He stared down at the covered corpse. That could be me. If Varul suddenly decides someone else is fit for the throne… No. Be logical. Kapitalena had said that Varul was tied to him now, in a way. Spending political capital to help force this through would tax Varul's already limited support and power—he couldn't just toss his weight behind another, for how could they trust a man who'd betrayed one tsar already? Someone so fickle was a dangerous prospect to put one's faith in.

Laczlo found himself gritting his teeth, hands curled into fists at his side. "My son… Nanko. If you threaten him, how you—how we dealt with the Vadoyeskis…"

"We would do no such thing."

"Swear it to me." He looked at the priest and about snarled. "I want your promise on the dignity of the Column. On the gods themselves. Promise you won't betray my children, at the very least."

Varul's lips tightened into a thin line, yet he said, "We swear upon the Column, its legacy, and the gods we serve, Rotaal as our oath-binding witness, that we shall not betray your children. To do so would be foolish, Voivode Vilsky. We need stability."

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

"Stability didn't mean much for Amon."

"Your situation and his are entirely different. Amon's family did nothing but push away every voivode of the realm while you've bound them."

Laczlo let out a long breath and shrugged his shoulders, relaxing into exhaustion once again. "I cannot believe the loyalist voivodes you had the tsar put in place will much appreciate a usurper. Especially a hypocritical one." He caught the priest giving him a frown. "What?"

"If you believe we would leave such a thing to chance, you are a fool."

"Huh?"

"They are not loyal to Vadoyeski, Voivode Vilsky. They are loyal to you. They owe their new position largely to your diligence in putting down the rebel nuisances."

"But they were imperial loyalists! Weren't they?" Laczlo asked.

"They were vetted families trusted to know which direction the wind is blowing. That's what you need, Voivode Vilsky. Practical men, not loyalists." He faced the entryway into the quiet chamber. "Let us continue. Many are waiting for your show of decisiveness in a time of unrest."

"Yes, very well." He pulled himself from the corpse, from his dedicated time for reflection and ponderance, and ambled toward the door. When he felt Varul's critical eye on him, he stood tall and turned his shuffling into a stride.

This was a terrible position. An awful, compromised position he never wished to have found himself in, and yet, it was his duty to make the best of it. While he was not beholden to the judgment of his actions to make it into the afterlife, like some other Ekhenists, such as the Nominationists, he felt obligated toward his fellow man. The shape and form of it were rough and unfinished, but he felt it, calling for duty and dedication. A difficult promise to fulfill indeed.

They exited the chamber, turning down small corridors to enter the great hall where so much slaughter had happened a mere year ago. Every voivode in the realm except for Vetesky was in attendance, standing at the front of a crowd of boyars, druzhina, priests, and even the elected magistrates of the Sodality of Agonia—a Vasian vassal of sorts. Voivode Ruilsky's family—the wife and young children of the rebel he'd killed—watched on with forced neutrality. Was it anger in their eyes or fear? Did it matter? He made himself look away.

Kapitalena was standing with rigid confidence beside her throne; she turned—as all did—to face his entry and did not smile but raised her chin slightly with a questioning look. One of weighing. Would he do what was necessary? Did he have the strength? She's pushing me. She knows I need the challenge now more than ever. He bristled and continued striding to his position at the throne, holding her stare. It seemed to satisfy her judgment, and she nodded. To the side were his personal druzhina, forming an honor guard around the dias in their full armor and armaments. Voiakh was there too, off to the side, in a place of honor. Varul would take a position opposite his, both like hands of the tsar, ready for use. Of course, things were far more complicated than that.

As they took their positions, Varul began a long, rehearsed speech before the great men and women of the land. Laczlo only partially listened to it all, dazed and in some partial shock as he was, looking at all those faces, all those judgmental eyes flicking to him and then away once more.

"Do you think it's a mistake?" he whispered to Kapitalena, barely moving his lips.

"Not now, Laczlo."

"Is it?"

"No. We've spoken on this."

He couldn't get Alasa's face out of his head. She trusted him… He said he was her friend! Kapitalena did too! How could they both lie so easily? So callously?

"It's them or us, husband. Their children or ours."

He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. He remembered the feeling of seeing the champion Ygon in his home, trying to force his wife to abandon him, threatening her. The rage that consumed him. All his enemies wanted to destroy those he held dearly, but now he was given a chance to wield more power than any of them. Even the Rodezian Dynasty and their arrogant demands for his surrender were now pathetic whines to be tossed aside. What would they say to him now, the tsar of all of Vasia? And the east? The Targul were coming for him. Assassins and spies at first, then their hordes… Surrounded, threatened, isolated. Vasia was vulnerable.

"And thus," Vicarr Varul said, voice strong and resonate in the great hall, "the Column invokes its right to call forth an oathmaking as Radokh Vadoyeski burns, his strength back to the gods." He gestured ahead, and all turned to see through the open front gates a pyre being lit, the oil igniting quickly, sending the entire thing into a pillar of smoke and fire. "Behold the slaying, forgotten in our weakness, returned with our rise."

Above, in the dark heights of the great hall where the cobwebbed beams loomed in the shadows, a light began to coalesce. People gasped at the sight of it twirling, shifting, forming like a valley's mist caught up by sudden winds. Then, before the dias upon which his new throne sat appeared a decrepit, pale, bony figure. A walking corpse. A creature of death.

It was no Soulborne, and yet, it struck fear in Laczlo's heart all the same.

"Anoint your sword in the blood of death and take the mantle of Tsar of Vasia, Laczlo Vilsky," called Varul, waving him forward.

Right. I was briefed on this, he thought, shaking himself from his stupor. He stepped from the throne and took an offered sword from Voiakh—the dead tsar's own in a second public bestowing—as the creature rose, tottering, almost dazed. A simple foe. Before it could attack, Lazlo swung his new blade in both hands and chopped into the Shambler's skull. The hack echoed through the hall. Black blood splattered his robe. The corpse fell to its knees, wobbling, gurgling the sounds of animated death. Laczlo swung once more and split its head wide open, spilling decayed sludge over the floor.

He stared as Varul extended a small rod, and a flash of terrible green ignited the hall with necromantic death. The Artifact Feia had wielded during the attack. It spat Soulfire, a terrible work of Sorcery. Yet the remains dissipated, bones clattering, bleached and white. The Sorcerous fire even touched his sword, ridding it of the gory muck. Servants rushed forward and cleaned up as Varul announced to the great hall, "Come now, bend your knee, offer your blade, and swear the oath before Rotaal himself to the new tsar of Vasia, Laczlo Vilsky!"

There was no hesitation. The voivodes of Vasia came forward, knelt, and swore oaths of personal fealty to him. They were either honest or expert liars, for he saw no looks of disdain, mistrust, or spite in the voivode's eyes. Just duty. How could he believe what he saw? It seemed everyone but him had awaited for this eventuality. Even Kapitalina. He was a pawn in this, as much as it infuriated him. What snakes hid in the grass? What predators lurked in the shallow depths? The commanders? The priests with Varul? The voivodes gathered around, kneeling, swearing their oaths? He feared these men and their hidden loyalties. How long until they turned on him as their predecessors had turned on Radokh Vadoyeski?

He took their swords and held the blades against their chests as they spoke. He didn't feel the power of having such men's lives in his hands as he was meant to, but the responsibility. The weight. As if he were being dragged down by it, water filling his lungs, burning, searing with the desperate need for air. They would betray him. Everyone would. It was only a matter of time.