In the Valley of Forgotten Kings (Part I)
He sat in the hand of some dead king.
The valley was scattered with such broken monuments, half-buried tributes to forgotten names collected here in the high bosom of the Faren Mountains like neglected novelties in a giant’s toybox. Here a sunken face eaten by lichen, there a splintered sword still clutched in a ringed hand. Crafted of the finest stone, now bent beneath the impassive yoke of age.
Thomus, who had been born into this world deep in the shitlined gutters of Ifrait by some nameless woman, now looked down on them all.
His fingers danced idly on the hilt of his blade, which sat naked across his lap. Flecks of blood dotted its face. He would not clean it. Beside him, his helm rested, its molded face staring out placidly with hollow eyes. In its polished surface, he saw a tired man. There was blood there, too.
There was a time when such stains would shame him, back when he was still proud to don the Judge’s helm. Back when he was still a Justice of the Blessed King Cerdonas.
He supposed he still was. By oath, if nothing else. A Justice served for life, meaning until death. This was the weight of their appointment. When a Judge could no longer perform his duties, he stood before the High Justice and the Circular and was, in turn, judged himself. Those found lacking were made to drink of night tea.
Only nine were ever granted the title of Justice at one time. Above them, the High Justice reigned, his power nearly absolute, answering only to the Blessed King.
There was only one other who had been younger than Thomus when they knelt at the foot of the High Justice’s seat, head lowered and shoulders rounded. The last act of subjugation before one rose again as a Justice of the Blessed King, carrying with them the full weight of His royal authority. When Thomus had bent his knee, in what was the most glorious moment of his life, the pride nearly choked him. His heart was swollen with it, mind drowning in it. They placed the helm, his helm, over his face. He was surprised by the weight of it. Judgement was not a light thing to carry. The helm was a reminder of this simple fact. The High Justice had told him this, voice muffled behind a mask of his own, as he presented Thomus with his sword. He took it up in a fist like steel itself, thankful that the helm hid his moistening eyes.
He stood a different man, a simple motion which wiped away his old life and its desperate struggle for validation. No crowd cheered for him. He had no kin, no line. He barely had a name. There was only the Circular, watching him from their tall chairs through horned masks which shone with glittering silver against the slanting sunlight pouring into the chambers. Eight expressionless faces, welcoming another. Now they were nine and whole once more.
And Thomus, too, felt whole.
The scry of an unseen falcon swooped over the valley. Boreal finches burst into the air in a spray, exploding from off the buried fingertips of some sunken regent. Thomas watched them scatter. A mistake, but a common one. All animals act from instinct in the face of danger, even man, but allowing it to spread your numbers only made for easier targets. He knew that better than most.