Chapter 408: The Shadow Behind the Throne
The Shadow Behind the Throne
Gary’s eyes went hard, his mouth twisting into something less than a smile and less than a scowl. His voice sliced through the strained silence like a knife, each word slow and drawn out.
"That individual," he said, pausing just long enough to cause every man in the tent to lean forward with discomfort, "is none other than my—
He clenched his hand, fingers tightening as if grasping the very air, and then thrust his hand toward the middle of the tent.
"—my personal bodyguard... Jim."
The entrance of the tent was rustled as the heavy flap was pushed aside. Cold air filtered in, bearing with it the faint smell of iron and pine from the mountains outside. Then he was there.
A man all in black, his whole form engulfed by heavy robe and hood, stepping inside with an unnatural quiet. The lanterns were dim, shadows curving abnormally across the cloth walls, as if even the flame was afraid of him.
There was no face under the hood—only darkness, darker than the night outside.
Air grew heavy in an instant. Men shifted in their seats, the creak of metal against wood too loud. Several generals who just minutes before disputed unchastenedly now had dry throats. The sheer presence of him weighed on their chests.
A murmur broke, a low but troubled one.
"So he is Jim..." one soldier breathed, his voice strained, as if calling him by name was dangerous in itself.
"King Gary’s most trusted guard," another whispered, leaning in close to his friend, though his gaze never wavered from the hooded figure.
"I heard... no one has ever laid eyes on his face," a general whispered, voice barely audible with a mix of fear and fascination.
"Some say he’s not human at all. That’s why the King keeps him by his side."
"Quiet!" a third snapped, though his own hand wriggled against the hilt of his sword.
But the whispers would not subside; they rolled like a slow tide, as if the mere presence of the hooded man pulled out fear and rumor. The longer he remained there, the more it seemed as if every candle flame recoiled, leaving only his silhouette to expand.
Gary observed the unease travel through his men with a sort of fascination. His fingers tapped once on the table before he replied.
"Enough," he growled coldly, and silence came crashing down. "Yes... this is Jim. My most faithful blade, sharper than any steel in the kingdom. From this time on, he will command the strike force and spring the traps we have set in the valley. If Moonsstone’s army ventures past our border, they will not return."
He left the words to settle like a verdict.
Each of the generals glanced, their previous arguments now brittle statements they were afraid to make. Heads nodded, one by one, in reluctant assent. Even the disbelievers remained silent—Jim’s brooding, ominous presence was enough to persuade them.
Finally, Gary fixed his complete attention on the man in black.
"So, Jim," said the King, his voice harder now, weighted with command. "Are you prepared for this mission?"
For the first time, the hooded figure shifted. He knelt, his movement slow and ponderous, his cloak cascading like spilled ink on the earth. His head dipped, his voice low and powerful, with a gravity that caused the oldest of generals to straighten.
"Your desire," Jim said, the words almost incantatory, "is my divine command, my King. It will be done."
Gary’s lips twisted—not soft, but tight with the edge of satisfaction. "I knew you would not fail me."
The tension shifted, strained but charged. The King’s trust in this shadow of a man only served to make the others more uneasy. Some were relieved that such a weapon was in their midst. Others, unease—what sort of man must he be if even Gary trusted him more than anyone else?
A general cleared his throat, gaining enough courage to speak. "My King... will he go alone?"
Gary’s eyes flicked over to him, chilly enough to make the man wince for speaking, but then nodded infinitesimally. "No. One of you will go with him. He will require a battalion—silent, disciplined, with no loose lips."
He swept the room, his eyes gleaming like a predator’s in the light of the lanterns, before coming to rest on a grizzled officer at the opposite end of the table.
"General Raith," Gary declared.
The man straightened. "Yes, my King."
"Jim will take you. Bring your best men. March west and lie in the high-train valley. From that point, Jim will spring the traps we’ve laid. When the Moonsstone army advances, you cut their legs out from under them."
Raith took only a heartbeat to hesitate before bowing his head. "As you command. I will ready the battalion at once."
Gary’s hand rose in a wave of dismissal. "See that you do it. And not a word of this passes your lips—if I hear so much as a whisper, I will know."
The threat was unnecessary, but it locked up the tent just the same.
Jim stood up smoothly to his feet, his bulk looming, choking. Not a word spoken, he stepped away and made for the door, Raith following hard behind. The two disappeared through the flap, leaving only the faint stir of chill air in their wake.
There was a silence in the tent, for an instant very long. The generals refused to meet each other’s eyes, as if their own uncertainty would be their betrayal.
Gary leaned back slowly, his hands curling over the armrest of his chair. The light of the lantern etched bitter shadows on his face, intensifying the sharpness of his eyes. His lips curved again, but this time the smile was more sinister, more cunning, stained with something almost cruel.
In the silence, he spoke low, near to himself but loud enough for the men closest to him to catch:
"Bring on the Moonsstone fools. They think they are smart... but even the shrewdest creature bleeds when trapped in the trap. Before they see the trap, their throats will already be under my sword."
Some generals shivered, knowing whether the chill was from the draft—or their king’s statement.