Kings and Pawns of Flesh and Bone

Prologue - The King's Coffeehouse

The sudden storm came as a welcome surprise. He stood momentarily, marveling at the sheer violence of it all. The rain fell with an air of fanaticism, striking the ground with zealous determination. The cool drizzle cleansed the summer dust from Cordoba's cobblestone roads, releasing a warm, fresh mist. The storm extinguished the countless lanterns illuminating the city streets. Darkness quickly followed, spreading throughout the city, and devouring him in the process. The rain slowly pierced through the wool of his forest-green cloak, causing a small colony of goosebumps to make their way up the back of his neck. Alive...still alive... he thought to himself. Most residents had long submitted themselves to the intense fatigue of city living. The mosques hollow and empty, the shops deserted. Through the corner of his right eye came a source of light that stood in defiance of the darkness. The light strobed through swinging wooden doors below an inviting sign which read Welcome to the King's Coffeehouse.

The intense sound of rain and wind surrendered itself to the steady clatter of small dice dancing across half a dozen backgammon tables. Conversations, while numerous, remained quiet. The intense aroma of freshly ground coffee beans filled the small room, and the steam of recently boiled beverages held steady at eye level. The coffeehouse was like so many others, small, but well attended by loyal patrons. Poets, philosophers, storytellers and thinkers gathered here to escape the monotony of mediocrity that great cities inflict on even the brightest minds. On evenings such as this, the most fortunate of poets and storytellers would be given the opportunity to enchant fellow patrons with eloquent ballads that spoke of love and courage, family and loyalty. On a small but elevated stage sat this evening's enchanter. The cloaked stranger watched for a moment as this masterful poet's fingers paraded over the strings of his lute. The rhythm was warm and pleasant. The poet's passion obvious with the flick of every string. As he neared the end of his poem he exclaimed

And so he swam, from shore to shore.

A young man, no more than ten plus four.

Escaping the evil of the lion's den.

The pride of a nation, the heart of men.

For him men fight, and slave girls sing.

He is our son, the king, the king!

A steady, quiet acknowledgement of a job well done came from the patrons, who promptly returned to their backgammon games. The cloaked man marched across the tiled floor, leaving muddy footsteps behind. He took a seat at the small table furthest from the door. There he sat, upright, yet slouched. His fatigue palpable.

A few short moments passed before the cloaked stranger garnered the attention of the establishment's owner. "Welcome, new face. Welcome all new faces!". The owner's pleasant smile sat comfortably on his round face. The man was short and jovial, with an altogether plump configuration. He twisted the edges of his well-grown moustache as he introduced his establishment. "This coffee house lives up to its name. This is the king's coffee house. What will you be having today?" he asked.

His skin was dark and well worn like the leather of a horse's saddle. His sunset orange beard clashed with his sky-blue eyes. the right eye hosting a single red freckle, while the left drowned in a sea of milky white fluid. If the coffee house owner was startled by the man's unusual appearance, he did little to show it. He maintained the poise of a first-class entrepreneur "Why you look like you've been bathing in the sun! You must be parched? A beverage to quell your traveller's pains?"

The cloaked man lifted his head against the weight of the world. Looking through the coffeehouse owner, the way that one looks at a passing cloud. "I... I need you to send a message for me" said the cloaked man.

"A message? I'm afraid I'm not in the message sending business. Who would you like to send a message to?".

"To the king".

The coffeehouse owner let out a light chuckle that sent his moustache fluttering and his shoulders shaking. "Good sir. Perhaps the name of my establishment has overstated our relationship to His Highness. I am no more capable of delivering a message to the king than I am of dictating the phases of the moon".

"You're not giving yourself enough credit" said the cloaked man. "Will you allow me to prove otherwise?"

The coffeehouse owner gave a quizzical smile. "sure...."

For a moment both men stood still. Neither taking their eyes off the other. The cloaked man took deep, sorrowful breath. In a single motion he stood up and pulled a bow and six arrows from his back. One by one he fired them towards the patrons. The arrows fired in rapid succession, almost simultaneously. His face remained unflinching. Cold and emotionless. Six of the patrons hardly had time to gasp before they were struck. The arrows whistled a deadly tune as they traveled through the air. The backgammon tables stood still, humbled by the carnage. Nearly half of the King's Coffeehouse lay dead, the other half dead silent.

The cloaked man had not grown since he walked in, but he now stood much taller. He walked, slowly, towards the trembling coffeehouse owner. Their faces drew near, and the owner could almost feel the mountainous terrain of the cloaked man's face. The cloaked man slowly withdrew a single arrow from his quiver, placed it ahead of the string and cocked it back. The slow extension of the string creaked under the immense pressure it hid in its threads. The tip of the arrow was now pointed squarely between the Coffeehouse owner's eyes.

"Tell the false king..." the cloaked man started, with the slightest of grins sneaking onto his face "I have come for him".