No Innocent Men

CW: violence and sexual coercion

“The King is dead. Long live the Queen.” If a more disquieting phrase had ever been uttered, Lothar had not heard it. King Yarren seemed so small now, crumpled in his ermine-fur cloak, basking in the light of a dozen torches. His bloodstained cloak had been white once. How many animals had to die for it?

The King had tried to crawl away it seemed, but made it only as far as the heavy ironbound door, where his strength had escaped him. His body was hobbled over like a beggar. One hand was clutching at the wound in his heart, the other was raised at the door. Men-at-arms surrounded the King’s body, and parted when Lothar answered his summons. All eyes were on him as he approached the body. The men craned to whisper to him as he passed, each man with his own theory.

Lothar had passed the Queen at the door. She had placed a hand on Lothar’s chest, and asked if she may enter. Truly, the monarchy had fallen, when Queens would ask the favour of Wardens. The favour was not his to grant, regardless. Duty came first this time. The soldiers said it was too grim a scene for a woman’s heart, and would not let her enter.

“Don’t just stand there, man!” a soldier shouted. The forest of half-helms and halberds fell still, every man waiting for Lothar’s guidance.

“What would you have me do?” Lothar waved a hand about the room. “You’ve trampled through here with half the city guard! All of whom are now suspects…” He watched the guardsmen with cat-eyes, catching every furtive glance they traded. “You have the Queen trapped on the other side of that door begging to be let inside. And not one of you has told me a damn thing that happened here tonight!”

The guards had no answer. They shuffled uneasily from foot to foot, flexing the fingers in their mailed gloves. The long silence was broken by the cawing of a crow, which had landed on the windowsill. It was one of those queer animals that could speak, though only the superstitious put faith in their words. “Me! Me! Me!” went the crow, before shrieking and vanishing back into the night. A single feather danced on the current for an eternity, finally settling on the King’s outstretched palm.

“We’re all doomed!” one man wailed, casting his halberd aside and falling to his knees. “‘Tis an ill omen,” another agreed. “Black wings, black words.” More men joined the outcry, but their voices were lost in the tide.

The King’s bedchambers were bedlam, every man more crazed than the last, grabbing at one another and arguing over omens. Lothar wondered if he could still be considered the maddest. A Warden only had to breathe to be considered mad; common folk had little grip on the occult.

He clicked his fingers and sent a a jet of blue flame spurting up to lap at the ceiling. The clamour died down as the men watched in awe and terror. It was a trick he used to use during war councils, when nobody could agree on a course of action. Lothar opened his palm and let the fire sink back into his skin. “Return to your duties, and let nobody know of the King’s passing. I want the names of every man here by the morn. If any of you can write, make a list.”

The guards scurried out of the room, avoiding the pool of kingsblood which rippled as they hurried past.

“Not you,” Lothar said, taking a knee beside the King.

The last man, no more than a boy, stopped at the doorway. “My lord?” he squeaked.

“Shut the door, and tell me what you see here.”

The guard boy did as Lothar bid. He looked at the scene for a long moment, unraveling it with his eyes. “The King was stabbed. He tried to run, but fell.”

 “Indeed. He tried to run.” Lothar stood, tracing the blood trail. “He was stabbed in his own bed,” he said, lifting the silken covers. There was a deep patch of crimson in the centre of the white sheets.

“He was asleep?” the boy asked.

“Perhaps. The king liked to watch the city before he went abed.” Lothar stepped over the blood trail and leaned through the open window. “He always left it open while he slept.”

Lantern-light danced across the walls and pavements below, blotted out every now and then by an owl swooping past. Lothar had spent many nights watching the city with the King. They would often spend evenings counting roof-cats as they leapt and played and warred over scraps. There was to be no counting today.

The cats were gone.

“My lord, do you think someone came through his window?”

Lothar exhaled sharply. Nobody could scale the tower, the stone was far too smooth and without purchase, like a waveless a grey sea.

“Unless a shapeshifter flew through the window guised as a bird, the killer came through the door,” Lothar asserted.

“He’s really dead then,” a familiar voice whispered. The Queen had managed to open the door. She stood in silken white bedclothes with her arms crossed over her chest. Her eyes were fixed on Lothar.

Lothar inclined his head. “Yes, my lady,” he said.

“Leave us,” the Queen commanded, casting a look at the guard boy, who tipped his head and scurried away.

The room seemed so much darker now as the Queen strode across it. She walked barefoot through the pool of blood, lifting her dress to step over the King. “Now I can have you,” she said, placing a gentle hand under Lothar’s jaw.

“Now is not the time for this, my lady.” He turned away from her. “I have lived with the guilt of our sin for years, but allow me my duty. The King and I were firm friends.”

The Queen tilted her head to one side, golden waves of hair falling over her face. “The King had more enemies at court than friends,” she began, tucking her hair behind one ear. “You’d end up going mad searching for the assassin. A dozen and more of his so-called courtiers could have placed the dagger in the hands of some street-rat and given him keys to the castle.” She smiled faintly, placing a hand on Lothar’s shoulder. “We should hang some poor sod for treason and have it done with.”

Her cunning had been so alluring when they met.

The King and his court had been hunting in the Eiswater forest when they stumbled across Lothar. It was quite unwardenly of him to be lost, and he asked to travel with the King. Some of the nobles laughed at his request, but Yarren brought him to spite them. “You do not fear the crown upon my head,” Yarren had mused. “You will make a finer companion than these lickspittles.”

Together, they drank an entire cask of ale, and must have killed a dozen or more foxes before losing count. Once the King had grown tired of the hunt, he held Lothar by the cheeks and told him, “If you run off in the night… I’ll–well I won’t care, truly. But don’t, you’re far too much fun.” Yarren left him by a riverside and retired to his tent.

Under the light of a full moon, the Queen found Lothar. He was alone and meditating, but she cared little. “I must have you, Warden,” she told him, taking him right there by the river. She was so beautiful, and Lothar so drunk that he could barely refuse.

The Queen had never imagined that they would be seen. A child recognised her, and ran to tell his father. It was the Queen’s word against his, and he never stood a chance. The King had slept through the deed.

They strung the boy up and gelded his father.

In the many years since, their affair had gone unnoticed. Yarren never mentioned that night again. Perhaps he didn’t care. He had placed his trust in Lothar, only to have it betrayed time and time again.

Lothar would stop now.

“I’m not letting another innocent man die for me,” he insisted, looking down at the King’s body.

“There are no innocent men,” the Queen said. “And once our assassin’s head is on a spike you can have me. I will name you as my consort. Just let this go.” She kissed his ear, running her fingertips down his chest. “Let me handle things from here.”

Lothar’s breath caught in his throat as she worked her way down his neck. Yarren was his friend. Even if he was bedding his wife, their friendship would not vanish now that he was dead. “If I could just find the true killer…” he whispered, the fine hairs on his neck standing up. “You could have his head on a spike, and true justice for your husband.”

“Oh Lothar,” the Queen sighed between kisses. “My husband never loved me, nor I him. I need no justice. We can frame anyone, and the realm will believe us. That is more beautiful than any just decree.”

Lothar pulled away, turning to face her. “I will find the killer. Frame whoever you like, hang the Lord of Goden for all I care. My justice shall be my own.” His hand was trembling, and he balled it into a fist. One act of vengeance could surely set everything right. Even if the world didn’t know, Lothar would.

The Queen looked through him as if he wasn’t there. “Go then. Men will ever do as their foolish honour bids them.”

“My lady,” Lothar nodded. Descending the King’s tower was a labourious task, but in his fervour it felt like nothing. He barged past the guard’s at the foot of the tower and swept out onto the courtyard. The moon was full tonight, as it had been on the first night he and the Queen had spent together.

A night sentry spotted him from atop the bailey and called down. “Lothar, sir. A rider done fled the castle. Kick’t in old Murst’s teeth and went off on his horse! I couldn’t leave me post, sir! But I seen’t it all happen!”

“Saddle my horse!” Lothar roared. He marched into his quarters at the foot of the barbican and snatched up his swordbelt. Moonlight splashed the room with faint colour, shining through the stained glass window above his bed. No longer would the full moon remind him of his betrayals.

Lothar was as fine a rider as any, and an even better tracker. The assassin couldn’t have travelled far, and wherever he was, he would soon be met with Lothar’s blade. After tonight, the full moon would be a symbol of justice. He could have the Queen and his justice, and the realm did not need to know. But I would know.

Wardens did not have the same oaths as knights. There was no godsent obligation to uphold any values. A Warden must follow his own creed. Lothar had never heard of a Warden quite as corrupt as himself. Deflated, he collapsed on his bed and watched the moonlight glimmer off his hands. If Lothar killed the assassin, the Queen would hang an innocent man, and moonlight would still carry guilt.

As immovable as she was, surely he could convince her to stay her hand, just this once. Lothar was no fool; he understood the ever-expanding web of politics. As the Queen always said, “Every so often, a spider must feast on a fly to keep the web spinning.” But the King had just died, the realm had to be given time to mourn.

Lothar had to be given time to mourn.

If he brought the King’s assassin to the council, they would have him tried and executed, and the Queen would not be able to stop them. Justice could run its course, and the innocent could still be spared.

The moonlight had all but vanished by the time Lothar rose and went to find his horse. A stablehand jumped up and led her across the courtyard. “Your horse, sir. Was beginning to think you’d changed your mind!” the man said, handing over the reins. “We weren’t sure how long you’d be gone, so we packed some extra pemmican. Oh, and there’s a shortbow and a few arrows strapped to the other side.”

The horse threw her head back as he mounted. “Such intelligent creatures, horses,” he muttered. There was never a less anxious horse, but something about tonight was disturbing her. Turning to the stablehands he said, “Let it be known to all in the castle: Justice will be done this night.”

Riding through the city streets always felt unfamiliar. Although he knew the roads, Lothar was not born here and had spent most of his time in the castle, watching the streets from above. The city seemed so much larger when he was inside of it. Would the death of their king have any effect on the common folk? Only the gods could know for sure.

The city gates were closed, the drawbridge raised. When Lothar trotted up to the portcullis, he called out to the guards, “Ho! Let me through.”

A stodgy man with a wiry grey beard came waddling out of the barbican by the gates. “Lothar, is it?” he grumbled, squinting his eyes. The man walked right up and grabbed the horse by the reins.

“Indeed, you may release my horse, old man.”

The gatekeeper coughed and spat a lump of phlegm on the ground. “No, no,” he muttered, fumbling for something in his pocket. “I’ve got this here.” He pulled out a roll of parchment, which bore the Queen’s seal. “Pigeon dropped it off, just before you got here.”

Half a dozen guardsmen rushed from the gatehouse, spears pointed at Lothar. Quickly they formed a ring around him. There was nowhere to ride. “What is the meaning of this?” Lothar shouted.

The old man unraveled the parchment and began to read. “‘The King is dead. Slain while abed by the Warden known as Lothar.’ That is you, is it not? ‘Arrest him unharmed, and escort him to the grey cells where he will await trial.’ Seems your jig is up, Warden!”

This accusation struck him deep, worse than any wound he had ever sustained. ‘The Warden known as Lothar’ was he ever anything more than a plaything?

Yarren was his only friend, and he had betrayed him. For nothing. He was, and always had been, a piece in somebody else’s game. Was he the innocent man? Or was he truly guilty?

A dull numbness overtook his hands, and he watched himself let go of the reins. The ground rose up to meet him as he fell sidelong from his horse. Ghosts of spearpoints drifted away into blackness as the torchlight above him faded. The last thing he heard was the coughing of the old guardsman as they hoisted him back over his horse.

When Lothar awoke, it was to the dripping of foul water in the flickering light of the grey cells. His hands were shackled and bound to the wall, and his legs were limp against the cold ground. The cell was cramped, but Lothar was not alone.

“I am sorry,” she said. “I hope you understand, I did not want to write that letter. When you left me in his chambers… I almost wanted to let you chase your fool’s justice. And I certainly never wanted to frame you in all of this.” She caressed his face, the same way she had done a thousand times before.

“Why did you then?” Lothar strained against his chains, but couldn’t free himself. He wanted nothing more than to hold her again.

She ran a hand through his hair. “You would’ve figured out the truth, my love. The safety of the realm was at stake.”

“When has the safety of the realm ever mattered to you?”

She giggled, and kissed him. Her laugh used to bring him such joy.

Lothar tried to look at her, blurry in the darkness, and felt himself begin to weep. “You know I am innocent of this crime.”

She withdrew her hand. “Oh, darling. There are no innocent men.”