Bethrothed

The crowd gathered before the executioner who stood at the forefront of all the action, sharpening his axe. To his right was the stake, set up firmly by members of the royal army. The wooden post was well driven into the the ground. The knights had done a good job, far better than was necessary for they had also taken the time to set up a stand forged by leftover plank acquired from the merchant, that rose a few inches above the ground, for the large, towering wooden stake to reside on. Overhead were the royal court, awaiting orders to carry on with the execution. Their wait cut short, in a few minutes the queen emerged from the tower leading off to her inner chambers and stood before the court to address the crowd. "People of Macedonia" she began. "This man - she pointed to the old man by the far left being hauled in by the guards. Is found guilty of Treason" She paused conveniently allowing a few seconds of murmuring from the crowd, but in actuality was giving the guards time to drag the old man all the way before she continued with her speech. The man now was being tied up onto the stake, held high for the crowds to see. She leveled her gaze to the executioner who by now was done with the axe and beside the doomed man, held back only by a final decree from the queen. "As accordance with our sacred law he must be punished" Another pause. She looked back at the members of her court. They nodded each with affirmation, confirming their approval giving her the mandate to carry on. She turned back to the crowd and continued. "I am a good queen as I am a fair one, but for this crime I can only see one fitting punishment" The young ones amidst the crowd began looking away. Fully aware of what would come next. Mothers alike shielded the eyes of their children, not wanting them to witness such brutality. The men each looked on with dismay while the executioner stood ready. "Death" the queen declared. The executioner retrieving the torch from the guard proceeded to set the stake on fire, roasting the man where he hung. Few minutes into his death, the queen retreated quietly back to her chambers as did most of the villagers unwilling to witness such a sight. Salazar walked away disdainfully. Without so much as setting eyes on the burning man, he maneuvered his way through what was left of the crowd towards the local tavern, fast as he could aware that later on the queen would need his services. From the rear end of the tavern, Alketas could be seen quarrelling with the wine maker's boy. He was called Alketas for his mighty and untamed strength - not the kind of man one should be seen quarrelling with. All present looked on with interest. It appeared he was angry - no furious that the fool had by accident spilled his drink. He was not the best of men when he was furious, quite hardly the type of man to be reasoned with. With his unearthly height, he towered clearly above the man, his fearsome muscles giving way to his hard broad chest. His fists were clenched and everyone watched eagerly, expecting a fight like no other. In a fit of rage he punched the man, nearly sending him flying but with quick balance the lad was able to support his weight by crashing onto a nearby stool, the wine maker did not look too pleased. In a matter of seconds another punch was thrown into the air, far much faster than the last one. Blink and you had missed it, the lad was unable to balance himself and as such fell sprawling across the floor, black eyed and bruised. In the midst of all the chaos came Admetos, hoping to steal a few quiet moments with a friend while the rest of the crowd watched as the young lad was beaten into a pulp. "Have you received word" "Hmm, leave me be" "Word in the tavern is the Queen expects" he flashed a sly grin. Salazar sat quiet. He put a spoon fool of oats in his mouth to stall, contemplating how to manage the question. "Is it true?" He took another go at the oats before answering "Glupava kurva" (foolish w***e) "Tell me old friend" Salazar laughed scornfully. "You Admetos are not my friend, now leave me" he ordered Admetos split off cautiously, not wanting any trouble from the old man sipping moist oats, not taken likely the fact that he was a member of the Queen's royal court. Shortly after his dismissal, two guards approached to convey him to the castle, in light that the queen - as anticipated demanded his presence in her chambers. He got up as quickly as an old man could and led by escort found his way to the palace. The usual roads through the local market were not as busy as expected. Though considerably crowded with townsfolk from both Moldavia and beyond, its stalls weren't pervaded. Smooth passage was assured, usually by now they'd have been approached by a pitted faced beggar or a rabble of hungry youths, complaining about tax increase. Unconsciously, Salazar's eyes studied the able bodied young man at his right, taking into careful consideration the sack he was lugging around on his shoulder. How much was in it, 100 gold coins, 200. The queen spared no expense when it came to the rewarding of her knights, spoiling them lavishly with free drinks, gems and jewels off all sorts. There had indeed been a time when he too considered knighthood, his reasons far from bravery and nobility but the respect and attention from the beautiful maidens of Moldavia and in turn the queen. It was no hidden fact that Moldavia housed some of the most beautiful girls in all the seven kingdoms. Pretty and fair, as sturdy and upright women as men could hope. They made for excellent wives and even better cooks but all Moldavian girls irrespective of size and stature had one thing in common. One quality Salazar respectfully detested, their skin. So clear it was almost translucent. White to the point that if one of the fair maidens were to be beaten or abused in any way, it stuck out like warts on a child's forehead. Most of the fathers of the dashing young ladies were blacksmiths, merchants, swordsmen with muscle and skill so great, a blow from one of these men could permanently disfigure a man's face - much of whom would not appreciate an in-law beating up their daughter. As beautiful and entertaining as they were, Salazar could never take a Moldavian wife, brief lovers yes but never in marriage. No way he would be able to resist the urge to hit one, just for the fun of it, just because he could, to show his superiority. They were good but their limpid skin was one feature he could never get around. Just around the corner, someone else peered at the bag of coins. A simple farmer near on his path to wretchedness. He stood slouching, resting on his cart of almost rotten vegetables and had been eyeing the loot closely ever since they entered the street. Three nights earlier, his only daughter had run off with one of his farm hands. Barely a day later his wife had left him for a wealthier, much more successful merchant. Before then two of his sons were attacked by wild animals on their way to his farm. One had died, the other managed to escape the bear but not before it plunged its teeth into his right leg leaving him lame. Since then his life had spiralled out of control. He wondered how much of those coins he'd have to steal to get a better life. He was still pondering when one of the guards flashed him a weary look as they walked past him. Instantly, he got the message. No one stole from the knights of Moldavia. They trekked through the roads till they reached the major city. It wasn't until the draw bridge had been laid down for their passage that Salazar realized he felt a sharp wincing pain in his right leg. The castle routes were a normality for him yet he couldn't ignore the fact that today's stride felt particularly long, abruptly he needed rest. Perhaps it was the indifferent looks in the faces of the men at his sides that spurred him on in continuity, for before he'd even had the chance to turn to ask for a minute's pause his weak legs had walked all the way to the palace front. In all his life, Salazar had been in this castle more times than some were opportune to live, yet each time he arrived, one thing about it remained unwavering and consistent. Its beauty and indefinable elegance was mesmerizing. Ivy draped the facade of the building, drawn from the top of the towers to the castle floors, the walls shone like gold. The Moldavian crest hung at the centre of one of three pillars beyond the walls of the castle, coated in red and held steadfast in the sky as wind soared through its slender fabric displaying the flag like the blood of its enemies. In a way the whole castle displayed itself like the blood of its enemies. Built to spite and strike terror into the hearts of its Enviers, to flaunt its superiority and magnificence. Why else would one build such a lavish castle if not to remind others of its betterness. Moldavia's palace was indeed the most beautiful and most powerful of all the seven kingdoms. Salazar had seen enough of it to wear the complacent glance on the countenance of his knight escorts but still he couldn't stop himself from uttering the words he'd vocalized the first time he had laid eyes on the fortress. "The facade of sovereignty"