Larkspur Mittel: The Lark & Owl Trilogy

19 - Reduced to Ash

Unlike the Eastern side of the city, the Northern District had been completely cleared of sand from the shamal in a day. It was as if a storm had never occurred. Such is the power of wealth, thought Ministry as he made his way up the Hekla Plateau to the Citadel.

The guards opened the gates and passed him through without question. He dismounted in the main courtyard and was met by one of Grimsoll Bolvekr's minions. He wore the long green robe and tall black head piece of the Bolvekr advisors that made him look more like a bishop-priest than an advisor.

"He wants to know why you need the tunnel maps?" the advisor spoke perfunctorily.

"I'll tell him myself."

"He's busy now."

"Is he?"

Ministry brushed past him towards the central hall, where Bolvekr held court.

The high windows of the cathedral-like hall cast long shadows across the main transept where Grimsoll Bolvekr sat upon the deposed Lark King's throne. The King and his family were being held captive in their own private quarters these last few weeks, and had no idea as to what fate awaited them.

The green-robed advisors stood on either side of Bolvekr. They were unusually silent and regarded Minstry's arrival with bristling contempt. They did not like this low-born First Consul, this common soldier, despite his fame in battle and long-held devotion to their great lord.

The tension in the air was felt by all.

Minstry bowed low, and then waited for Bolvekr to speak first, as was his want.

Seated on the King's throne, his stone-like face was cast in shadow so that it was impossible to see his expression. His one good arm rested languidly on the elaborate scroll of the chair's side. He'd lost the other arm from shoulder to hand in battle long ago. Despite this one small flaw and potential weakness, his powers of sorcery and enchantment were far reaching and greater than any other lord Minstry had known.

Ministry stood proud waiting. His feet were set apart, his chest held high, and his hands were clasped behind his back. He hoped Bolvekr would not ask about the small wound on his cheek.

"The hour has come for the Bolvekr to rule this land again. My people have waited an immeasurable sum of time to reclaim what is rightfully theirs: the Crymlin Mire and Skalla Mosse Bogs. Do you understand this?"

The deep contralto voice vibrated across the hall and reached like a black, smoky hand towards Minstry.

"I do, my lord," Minstry felt a strange tightening across his chest.

"These places belonged to the Bolvekr tribe long before the Peat Wars. And they shall belong to us again."

"They shall, my lord," Minstry's breath came short.

His heart and lungs felt as though they were slowly being compressed and squeezed. What was happening? His eyes grew large and fearful, and his vision blurred.

"There is another bog we seek," Bolvekr continued and did not seem to notice his First Consul's distress, "and once it is in our possession we shall rule every land... from the Marshlands to the the Wicken Fen to the Moor Mountains and far beyond."

Ministry could not stand up any longer. He fell to his knees helplessly, and pulled at his clothing. And then he caught a whiff of anise in the air... a harmless, savory herb for most, but a poisonous gas to Minstry. The small herb caused a profound reaction in his family and had secretly killed his father, and his father's father.