The King of Swords and Serpents

          Old Pantalion is reading again his favorite passage in Clara’s Book of ambush. “In such a peculiar phenomenon which the night falls in the first minute of Knives, death shall succeed thereafter.” Old Pantalion continued reading. “The night is drawn at the last quarter of Goblet, but whenever it decides to delay the darkness, every exemplary general should know that it’s the best opportunity to ambush.”            After reading a chapter, Old Pantalion rested his eyes for a moment, and then he stretched his back and shoulders before he put the book down on his wooden table and went on to make himself a cup of tea.            Ever since Old Pantalion is always affectionate about the academics of power. In fact, for that matter, his passion and pursuit to master all the twists and turns of power and influence lead him to take a seat as one of the emperor’s chief ministers in the Zanuce Empire. But his days as a chief minister are long gone—he left Zanuce as though he had never existed there. Now, he’s just an old man that’s taking care of his little tavern while habitually listening to the Dervannian soldiers’ nightly chatter. And the only thing that reminds him of his old life in Zanuce, is his book that he stole from Clara, the author herself, and the emperor’s minister for war.            Old Pantalion gazed outside his window, to his surprise, the tea inside his cup waved back and forth as his hand quivered. It’s the last quarter of Goblet, yet the sky is still blue.            “It seems that the royal blood isn’t enough to quench today’s bloodthirst,” spoke the Old Pantalion to Garry—a Dervannian soldier—after sipping his tea.            “Who told you that?” replied the Dervannian soldier as he fixed his dagger to his side, flinching a bit.            Old Pantalion showed the book that he just read earlier while he continued sipping his cup. Garry smirked. “Ahh,” sighed Garry. “Don’t read too much, old man, books can never kill, the sword can.” He then pulled his sword out of its case and swung the blade forward—a familiar stunt which any Dervannian would know. The wooden tavern felt his boastful movement as the bamboo screeched a little. Old Pantalion’s lips twitched, and then he thought: a man, before drinking, should know which one is his cup of tea.            Goblet has passed, and in the first minute of Knives, the darkness curtained the blue sky to shut. Minute by minute, the Dervannian soldiers were filling in the tables. The wooden tavern was crowded again—as usual. Gossips were bustling around like bees, except only that they puncture a man’s ego. But this night is no less the same—the soldiers were not talking about their skills with their swords, nor wagers and gambling, nor women and s*x. They, as expected in every dine-in Dervanna, were talking about their king’s death earlier today.            Pantalion, while feeling the strange breeze of the air, he was pondering in silence about the sudden turn of events inside his little tavern. The king of Dervanna died earlier—he was defeated by an outsider—a Zanucean—in a duel. The battle began at dawn earlier, and it lasted half a day until the Zanucean’s blade cut the king’s chest open, and led him to his final breath. And for the outsider’s audacity, he was awarded the Dervannian Throne, of which the law of the land accords. The law orders the Dervannian king not to refuse a lawful duel proposed by anyone as a challenge to his throne, for a king must prove the worth of his strength to protect Dervanna throughout the time until the time comes to disprove him otherwise. And whosoever shall stand glorious after the sacred duel, to him shall the Dervannian Throne shall be entrusted. Yet now, marks the beginning of a new regime, old Pantalion couldn’t hide his dismay that the Dervanna has fallen to an outsider whom he knew from his birthplace. Pantalion is certain, that the outsider is the son of the vicious ruling emperor of Zanuce. Upon seeing him earlier with his exemplary skills in battle, he’d say that the man has grown very fine. But when he saw his left cheek slashed with a scar, it could only mean one thing—the lad was exiled.            “The Dervannian poets should call this day, the day of the fallen tiger,” suggested Garry with a glass of beer on his right hand, while his other hand is caressing a tavern girl’s thigh. His shirt is soaked with a mixture of beer and his sweat. The liquid traced the lines of his abdomen, and it risen the girl’s temperature.            “Oh how poetic, Garry,” affirmed the girl in a high astounding tone, but she stared blankly at him. then, her arms began massaging the soldier’s well-grown muscles. She knows what to pinch and press, she could see the soldier’s reaction in his eyes. She should do better in exchange for her fortune, and she knows well that sooner, the soldier will demand more. And she will do as the soldier pleases for more fortune.            The tavern girl’s hands sailed around Garry’s stimmy physic, waking up the soldier’s veins in dilation for a blood rush. The warmth of his skin suggests a greater fortune so her soft, and trained palms went down, and went up again, and deep down the man’s pleasure. The tavern girl sent Garry into a surge of electrifying desire, and at last, the animal in him has awakened. Garry repositioned himself on top of the tavern girl, tearing her upper clothes off and removing his shirt out of sight. But as he was about to plunge himself to her in the open, a strong force blew him in the opposite direction.            Garry was furious, rage and indefinite madness provoked him to give the man a fist blow. But he was not successful, the man stood before him with his right hand twisted. Garry screamed in pain. The man in a coat made of silk clutched his sword, ready to drive a blade to his chest. “This is the best way to correct the filthy manners of Dervanna,” exclaimed the man.            Old Pantalion heard the familiar voice, he rushed to see what happened. He saw the man in a coat made of silk, and Garry as his captive. Old Pantalion blinked at Garry. He shall die tonight, thought Pantalion. What made him worthy of life before an executor who slaughtered his king earlier today. And after all, he shall be killed by a sword, not a book. Pantalion gave Garry a slight smirk.