Game of Pawns

Chapter 2

"Admit it," grunted Jun through a mouthful of vegetable stew. "The bastard got the best of us."

"Yes, but..."

It was unlike Zander to struggle with articulating sentences, but this was the twelfth time he had been rendered speechless this evening. King scraped the sides of the wooden bowl with his spoon, suddenly feeling the pangs of an oncoming stomach ache. It confused him. Nothing he'd consumed this evening should have caused such pain. The table was covered with a number of hearty dishes, like roasted aubergine, parsnips and yams in a buttery herb sauce; a rich vegetable stew heaped with beef chunks; freshly baked multigrain bread and hunks of cheese; leafy salad topped with sliced red onion and tomato; and even a pyramid of egg tarts glazed in a sticky maple syrup. They had stainless steel goblets filled to the rim with a luscious red wine made from their own grapes and even a tapped keg of ale.

Each dish was handmade according to recipes of their own design, adapted from books Zan had found in the library. All of this was set upon a table that could easily sit twenty people of various sizes and heights, but only Jun and Zan were there, occupying two seats at the end closest to the fireplace. Jun was at the head of the table, as a king should be, and Zan was on the right.

Therein was the root of his ache, Jun figured.

A magical light illuminated the dining hall, along with sconces on the wall and two torches beside the door to the great hall. Three clones stood near the kitchens, their unnatural stillness making them closer to furniture than to attendants. Along the left side of the table was a row of windows about twice his size that overlooked the town and, far past the Wall, the horizon. He had chosen long ago to eat with his back to the scene, but Zan had insisted that a king always be at least half-aware of what was happening in his domain. Imagining the lifeless village in the midnight glow of the moon was enough to make his stomach groan.

Twelve years of laboring for an impossible mission, and now this mess.

Jun rolled up the sleeves of his shirt to see the tattoo on his arm. What did it mean? Just like the silence of the castle and the loneliness of the dinner table, the tattoo served as a constant memento of his ongoing failures.

"Zander, at this rate, do you ever think we'll succeed?" he heard himself whisper, voice raspy.

Setting down the wine goblet, the mage furrowed his brow and cast his eyes to the hearth, where a painting for an unknown kingdom among treacherous cliffs hung above the stone mantle. Beyond the castle of the picture was a city that blanketed the hills like blossoming flowers fading into the setting sun. It was an awe-inspiring piece.

"I don't know," Zan admitted. "We're doing our best to start our own dynasty and bring people to Prolozia, just as we were instructed to do."

An unspoken "but" hung in the space between them. Jun could tell that something was bother Zan. There were too many pauses in this conversation. He thought he knew the cause of the problem, and so it nagged at Jun. He picked up his used fork and flipped it through his fingers, trying to focus on something other than what had happened that morning. The string of events unfolding from that single mishap with Duran was foreboding. Jun could feel the trouble on the horizon. Unable to hold it in anymore, King slammed both hands against the tabletop, pushed back his wooden chair, and stood to face the night sky.

"I see nothing," he said aloud.

Zan made a sound of perplexion.

Jun gestured to the dark scene. "There is nothing out there. That's what you're worried about, right? Another attack? More marauders from distant lands?"