The Coup

The night sky was pitch black. The moon looked white, a bright beacon high above in contrast. Far below, the sea breathed and snarled. The swell both a lull into complacence and a defiant beast; a legendary killer of men.

The bonfire's music drowned out all the rest. The fire was built like a tower. Upon the ruin by the sea they had come to, it was like a tower upon a tower. The fire had none of the sky's vastness, none of the sea's indecision. It did not have the woe of the stark, solitary moon.

That fire was all colour; orange, red and black. And it didn't whisper like the breeze, it didn't offer silence for thought. It didn't hint at death, it promised it. Hot and immediate, roaring.

Forty men stood in wait. And some didn't stand, but were fixed in place. Prisoners. Baited breath. 

There was a taste in the air, something Ryheric knew but had never felt before. He was sure they had ghosts with them. Or perhaps this was the Bema Brynleigh had spoken of long ago. Or something else. His fatalism told him something much worse; but as with the chaos of nature, he couldn't be sure.

He was never the type to theorise for long, and he decided on superstition; there were three dead men by that fire, with them, tonight. Gazakh the Usurper, Erolhan the Fearless, and Urtegrul the Cruel.

...

General Efedagon stalked by the flames like a fell executioner. And maybe he was. The general's tribute had been made with blood. A weregild of a man's life to repay the decimation of a tribe now fated to generational allegiance; the sons of those wronged would not share the feuds of their fathers. 

Ryheric felt like the sea during all of this. He wanted to fight, wanted to question what on earth he was doing here. He wanted to kill Efedagon. Had he not dreamed of it many times? Were they not among his favourite dreams, in the dungeon?

But there was something in him compelling stillness. He told himself it was the stream. It had reached the sea, through lakes, rapids and delta. He was exactly where he was meant to be. By that fire he cut a terrible, merciless figure. A warlord's figure. Gazakh and Erolhan alive in his bones. His lost music found only in the roar of flames and the screams of men.

...

By the time the brutal ceremonies by the fire were done, the men were worked into a frenzy. All red and black. The fire had gone out, unnaturally sudden. Efedagon and Ryheric would normally be at the front of the fight. This time, they stood, smoke framing them. The warriors embarked on the second uprising.

... And somehow, by morning, they were free.

Free.