Chapter 8 (Part III): Regicide

Syliva lifted her head high to catch the breeze over the castle wall, “You know, sometimes it makes me sad that your senses are so much less developed than my own,” she said to What’s-her-name.

“Madam?” the young woman was confused by the deviation.

“What’s art to you people? Painting, yes? Yes, painting. I can smell the anger of your fellow people scurrying about below us,” she said as she flicked a tongue into the breeze, “But you didn’t even know that emotions have a smell, did you? Imagine being the world’s most fantastic painter, but everyone around you is color blind.”

“That would be tragic, ma’am,” What’s-her-name said.

“Hm. Yes, it’s true, only I can truly appreciate my own work. It’s sad,” Syliva suddenly returned to the topic at hand, “The king’s fate is sealed. Even my enemies want him removed from the throne. A plan I had originally expected to take months, has come together in a matter of days.”

“Truly an astounding feat, ma’am.”

“Yes, yes it is. I’ve been chief counselor to the king for no more than a week, and I’m already in position to take the next step,” she hissed, “outright challenging Hylas’s supposed sovereignty.”

“Perhaps it would be wise to wait?” What’s-her-name tentatively said.

“WAIT?!”

“Well… I mean… you’re … well, you’re going to be around a long time, so why rush, right? Why not just let things unfold naturally and just sort of… slide into the crown when the opportunity presents itself?”

“I don’t even know where to begin,” Syliva rolled her eyes, the nictitating membranes sliding across them in a patronizing expression unique to her kind.

“It’s an interesting suggestion,” Baryd said objectively, “But probably not wise. If we look at this as a long term thing, I have to be honest: I see a lot of growth potential for the Neo-Monarchists. Allowed to continue, I’m sure the country will end up being polarized between them and the Nationalists.”

“Ma’am, many Nationalists are favorable towards you, and their opposition increasingly believes themselves to be in the minority,” What’s-her-name said, “But you don’t fit the demographic qualities that most Nationalists are looking for in a new leader, if you act now, someone else may well be put on the throne, and that person will be harder to remove than Hylas.”
Baryd looked annoyed at the woman but she had a good point. "What exactly do the Nationalists want at this point?” Syliva asked.

“In short…? An uneducated white human male who has pulled himself up by his bootstraps and somehow made large sums of tax-free money through hard work and unwavering devotion to his god and country. And preferably, specifically to the god Golon.”

“Baryd…” Syliva hissed, “I asked you to make the Nationalists love me.”

“I did!” Baryd said, “They do!”

“Then why does their ideal leader sound MUCH MORE LIKE YOU THAN LIKE ME?”

Baryd, usually cool as stone, now seemed somewhat concerned, “It’s a process. Look, you don't want to look like the obvious choice from the get-go, it'll make it too obvious you've been aiming for the throne. And yeah, the Nationalists say they want someone who looks like me, but that's not really what they care about. What they care about is bringing an end to what they see as a corrupt regime, and in that context, we've made you a political outsider. You’re too wealthy to be bought and too dangerous to be threatened. True, you’re both physically and morally a monster by most peoples’ standards, but we've made sure your supporters see you as sort of a… antihero. No, you're not a white human male, but your also not a dwarf woman or an Arbarii man. And no one expects to get everything they want - they ask for a lot and settle for a little. So we give them you. You might not be the ruler they think they deserve right now, but you'll be the one they need."
"I feel like there was an insult buried in there somewhere, but I appreciate your subtlety enough to let it slide, Mikhail. What I gather from this, though, is that I am chiefly supported by the most pliable and easily led group of people in the kingdom."
"Well I wouldn't tell them that, ma'am..." What's-her-name said.
"No, indeed not. But the reality is that many of my followers are weak-willed simpletons. Their support could disappear more easily than it has been won. The ‘moderate’ Nationalists could easily turn against me – maybe join the Monarchists if they dig up some bastard descendant of Caelus that meets their criteria, or the Neo-Monarchists if they redefine their goals. My least enthusiastic supporters now could easily become my enemies down the road.”
"Strike while the iron is hot, ay?" Baryd said, "Probably the wise course, especially given our other development..."
"What 'other development'?"

What’s-her-name hesitantly brought out an unfamiliar document, saying that it probably wasn’t something to be concerned about, but that it might be worth checking into. What was immediately obvious was the letterhead of the underground paper that had been published at the university before Syliva razed it to the ground. That irritated her right away, but the large sheet of paper was too small and delicate for the dragon to hold, so she knocked the woman to the ground, and put one of her fore-claws down on the paper to hold it in place while she examined it closely with one eye.

It was a small poster - or large handbill, depending on your standards - which told the tale of a brave orc warrior who’d taken over leadership of the town of Defiance far to the East, and was threatening secession from the kingdom if Syliva was not brought to justice. The story detailed how the town had been despotically ruled by the orc’s father, a man so cruel and vile he’d imprisoned his own son when he stood up for the people of the town. It explained that the orc’s father had only attained and kept that power under Syliva’s protection, and that the orc now held her personally responsible for the misery that had been heaped upon his town for years.

“Well, that explains why Tharkrada’s payment is late,” Syliva said dryly, “How many other payors are delinquent in the east?”

What’s-her-name got back to her feet, “Many. All of them are at least a day late. The Kerwyns missed their payment and they’ve been on time every time since I started working for you.”

“That’s problematic.”

“Ah, you can knock them in line,” Baryd said.

“I can’t burn a third of the country,” Syliva said, “Where did this come from?”

“The fliers are everywhere, ma’am,” the aide said, “Some have even turned up outside of the city.”

“Who is printing them?”

“Well, anyone could have reproduced the university letterhead, but there was an odd bit of business with one of your heralds. One of the printers that contracted with Broad Beard Press reported that a lot of his materials just went missing, but when the guard investigated, they found evidence he’d been involved in some shady business.”

“And where is he now?”

“He fled the city days ago, ma’am. The guards have been searching for him, but haven’t found any trace. He was last seen headed south.”

“I see.” This “Thrakaduhl” the pamphlet was making out to be some folk hero was problematic.

Baryd saw the same problem as well, “He would be a perfect rallying figure for the Neo-Monarchists, and might inspire many of the Monarchists to abandon their search for a blood relation.”

“He is an orc, though,” What’s-her-name said, “would people accept an orc as their ruler?”

“Orcs aren’t immigrants,” Syliva said, “No more than elves are, anyway. The orcs and elves had already taken this land away from the dwarves before Caelus IV’s ancestor raised an army – in large part consisting of freed orcs – and conquered it from them.”

“I didn’t know that, ma’am,” What’s-her-name said, “did you… were you there?”

“In a way,” Syliva paced, her tail writhing with agitation, “Some people even claimed Caelus I’s father was an orc. The point is, orcs are quite unlike elves, or dwarves, or halflings. As far as many of your kind are concerned, an orc ranks higher than most colors of human.”

“Orcs historically have bad blood with the Gnomans, too,” Baryd said, “Given the narrative we’ve built around Gnoman involvement in the alchemists’ conspiracy that could be an asset to him. Plus… humble rural background and rebellious image, from a town called 'Defiance' no less?”

“He’s a good fit for the Nationalists’ ideals, even,” Syliva said, “he’s a better fit than me anyway. I need to eliminate him as competition.”

“Can you just… fly across the country and… you know,” Baryd said, “Discretely ‘off’ him?”

“On a dark night, if I use the clouds and smoke to my advantage, I can burn down a town without being seen clearly – or a university as the case may be – but that doesn’t seem like it would go over well right now.”

“Could you just track him down and eat him? You know, personally?” Baryd asked.

“Not having ever smelled him before, no. And that seems like it would go over worse than burning his home to the ground.”

What was it the girl in the market had said? I can’t get away with murdering him, Syliva thought, I need to execute him.

“The conclusion is clear; I need to make my move for the throne now, to try and gain the Nationalists’ complete support while I can, and then solidify my hold by legally moving against the Neo-Monarchists and any others who stand in my way.”

Syliva didn’t wait for Baryd or What’s-her-name to offer any more opinions. She clambered to the top of the castle and launched off the edge like an alligator sliding off a river bank. Her wings flapped twice to wheel her around in the air and she glided down to the mob gathered down the road. Ordinarily, this was the nicest part of town, the last buildings before the road began its winding path up from the city to the castle. Here, many of Caelia's wealthiest families had small homes built on lavish estates maintained by the city's few notable land-owners. They used the homes seasonally for visits to the city, or sent their children to stay in them while attending the university, and a small economy of shops and businesses had sprung up in the intermingled streets to cater to them. The crowd now filled those streets like water in a river, surrounding the largest estate - the King's manor - like an island. The tide of human protesters was held back by a ten foot wrought iron fence capped with spikes. A number of the king’s personal guards were stationed in the mansion’s courtyard, thrusting pikes through the iron bars. This line of defense was now all that held back a crowd that was now throwing bottles and rocks while chanting, calling for the king’s arrest.
Syliva landed on top of the buildings directly across from the mansion's courtyard, and roared dramatically, spreading her wings and releasing a cloud of fire into the air. The crowd fell silent and all eyes turned to her. 
Excellent, she thought. The iron was hot, and the time to strike was certainly now.

“My people,” Syliva thundered, “You have been wronged! You have invested your lives in this kingdom, and you have been betrayed!” The crowd remained quiet, people barely breathing, possibly trying to decide whether to run away from her. “I have worked desperately to do my part to restore this economy and to protect you from the threat of foreign conspiracy, but at every turn I have been thwarted by those who are friends of the throne and enemies of the people! My farmers labor to bring you affordable food, but deviants in our country would rather burn their own crops than see your children fed! My private security forces risk their lives to keep the roads and towns of our kingdom safe and secure while the highway guard spend your tax money in inns and brothels. And now, one of my closest friends, the orc chieftain Tharkrada, who’d wisely governed and valiantly protected the town of Defiance for decades, has been murdered and defamed by agents of a foreign power bent on looting our country, enslaving our children, and eradicating our way of life! The same foreign power that corrupted the once noble college that sat at the center of this very town, the soul of this town, and turned the men and women there against the common people they should have served!” 
The Nationalists had begun screaming in anger; not at Sylvia, but rather, with her.

“I have said too little for too long,” Syliva said, “I have witnessed injustice and suffered it silently, but no more! I have waited for the king to change, but now I say, we must change the king!” The Nationalists cheered angrily. Syliva had told them what they wanted to hear, and now she’d give them what they really wanted, something no man or orc could give them as well as she could; brutal, horrifying violence.

Syliva reached forward with her wings and pushed back the crowd so that she could hop down to the road without crushing anyone.

“Brothers! Sisters!” Syliva shouted, “We are born of different blood, but tonight, if it be necessary, we bleed together!” Syliva roared as terrifyingly as possible, and then marched towards the gate, the crowd parting before her. When Syliva casually spat fire, it came out as a stream of burning, sticky fluid. It was deadly, but the agonized screams and smell of cooking meat might shock this crowd out of their present furor, and this occasion did call for something with more flare. 
Syliva decided to show what she was truly capable of. She took several huffs of air as quickly as possible, oxygenating the potent bile in her gullet, and then unleashed it as a narrow jet of blue white flame. She flapped her wings, fanning the burning lance with gale force wind. The air before her ignited, the entire area between her and the gate burning hotter than any blast furnace. The wrought iron gates glowed red, then white hot and began to sag. The guards behind the gates didn't have time to scream as they boiled inside their armor. Fluids bursting from the seams in the white hot metal and ignited as little jets of flame. Their melted armor folded under its own weight, collapsing into a heap of slag metal, swirled with burning blood and crumbling bones.
Syliva charged forward and smashed into the sagging gates, throwing bent rods of red hot metal into the courtyard that started small fires in the gardens around the mansion. The surviving guards ran about in a panic, completely confused by this turn of events and desperately trying to figure out where to escape to. Syliva thought it might do her ‘people’ some good to feel involved, though and began grabbing the guards and tossing them back into the mob.

“Punish them!” she shouted, “Punish the traitors that protect their false king!” The mob swallowed the men in heaves of violence.

“STOP!” a man shouted from the mansion’s upper balcony. King Hylas, still in his night clothing, had come to beg, quite a reversal from his posturing in the House of Lords. “Please! Do not harm these men! They are not traitors! They are pulled from the ranks of the cityguard; they are just ordinary men, like all of you!” Hylas shouted to the mob, but it was too late – the guards bodies were being lashed to the wrought iron fences, one by one, and people were clearing away from them. Syliva chuckled as she got the idea - evidently the crowd was even more blood thirsty than she'd imagined. One by one, she carefully spat gobs of flame at the strung up guards, lighting them on fire. The men screamed in terror as their flesh cracked and the fat oozed from their bodies.

Hylas, horrified by the sight, turned to run but Syliva caught him with her long scaly tail and lifted him off the balcony, holding the squirming, struggling little man over the rioting crowd that begged her to drop him. Syliva was about to do so when a new wave of chanting broke out. People had been shouting, “End the king! End the king!” but now they’d begun shouting, “End the king! End the line!”

“No, no!” Hylas begged, “Please no!”

Syliva smiled and turned back to the mansion. She aimed low and released a steady stream of fire at the lowest level, strafing slowly from one side of the building to the other. Hot gas burst through the windows and doors of the first floor, igniting carpet and wood. A dozen screams came from the house as the fire worked its way up.  

Syliva tossed the weeping man at the feet of the raging crowd. “End the line!” She roared. The crowd surged forward and grabbed the man, dragging him to his doom.