Draka stood before the Cardinal’s desk and regarded the room with a grim expression. He still wore all of his armor, only had his helmet strapped on his belt to tap against the hilt of his sheathed longsword with every step he had taken to get to this abomination of a room. He didn’t see ancient texts being preserved and studied, didn’t see the many open tomes with parchments scribbled with notes and verse references, none of the parchments stacked on the desk soothed his rage.
All he saw was wealth. Materialism. Hypocrisy. Leather pleated chairs, fur sofas, desks with ornate friezes and etchings—whether of Saints or angels or scenes taken from scripture meant nothing—the polished wood shelves, the decorative gold candelabras. The covered bed and tasseled pillows.
He had the Monastic Knights escorting Cardinal Olivier stop him at the door. He turned to look at the man over his shoulder with a scowl bearing teeth. Then he lifted his sword. Not the small one, not the longsword he kept sheathed at his side, but the zweihander he had been carrying like a spear. With one hand on the long handle and the other on the blunted stretch of the blade that followed it, he brought the great steel blade down through the desk in a single swing. Another swing cut through the poles of the bed, bringing the curtains toppling over it in flutters. Then he cut through the center of the bed in an arc that split it end to end.
The Cardinal was silent. He was gawking. Sweat beaded down his forehead and stained his precious fur lining of his robes. He jerked with every crash of the blade through the desks and awnings, every wardrobe and chest that Draka destroyed. When Draka threw the great sword through the wreckage of what had once held his different robes for all the individual sacraments and rites, Cardinal Olivier nearly jumped into one of the knight’s arms only to be shoved back into the doorway.
Draka didn’t stop when the wreckage had piled over his knees. He kicked split boards whose nails and hinges were in tatters. He threw the ivory plates and bowls, with their little hand painted rims of pretty vines, to shatter on the wall. The candelabras splattered their candles over the grated iron gate protecting the ancient texts. The candelabras themselves splashed apart in arrays of gold and silver. One chair went out the stained glass window, plummeting into the inner courtyard below, where it, too, split apart.
“I—I believe I get the point,” Cardinal Olivier, though shaking, said it with just enough grim seriousness, still defiant, still thinking he had the right to speak at all.
Draka only shot him a fiery glare that made the Cardinal swallow down so hard, he watched his Adam’s Apple struggle. That’s when he drew his knife from his belt in one hand and the axe in the other.
No, Draka kicked his way through the debris to the sofa, you haven’t. And he cut at it, chopped at it, until there was nothing but feathers and shredded cloth clinging to splintered chunks of wood. A severed bed post was close enough that he sent that through the other stained glass window like a spear, carrying the other bedpost with it by the shredded curtain which had once been draped between them.
His hand came to the Cardinal’s throat. The look in the Cardinal’s face, the fear in those brown eyes, only fueled him further. This was what it took to be humbled? A show of force? Violence of action? His life to be threatened? Draka pulled him until their noses met, piercing those terrified eyes with his rage, with his mettle. People are starving just beyond these walls and this man lives like this as a MAN OF GOD!
‘Calm.’ The voice made Draka raise his chin from the Cardinal. He squeezed a little, just enough that the Cardinal’s breath became audibly labored. ‘Calm, Draka! Release him!’
Draka let go with a shove. Cardinal Olivier doubled over, coughing and pressing at his throat to force it to open. It was then that Draka saw that the Monastic Knights were staring at him, frozen in terror. With a dry swallow, he took stock of all the damage he had done to the room. It was nothing but debris as thick and irreparable as Talkro had been after the flood, surrounded by walls of bookshelves lined with books that had survived unscathed.
Draka gathered his knife and axe, returned them to their places on his belt, then took up the great sword. With a trembling hand through his long hair to brush strands from his own sweaty forehead, Draka took another breath, silently praying for forgiveness for his rage…again.
The scowl was fading, but the want to roar, the want to shout, to kick, to tear apart anything within reach, was still there. But Draka breathed deep and long. Once he had calmed himself enough that he knew he wouldn’t stick his six-foot blade all the way through the Cardinal, he walked between the Monastic Knights with a snap of his fingers for them to follow.
The clerics, with their shields and armor brandished, lined either side of the nave from the door to the steps of the crossing. Two lines of shields and disciplined warriors of God faced each other as the rails of a path to the door. Behind both lines, the Monastic Knights were crowded together, waiting. It would be a very painful day for anyone who wished to challenge their hold over the Cathedral.
The priests and monks were gathered on the crossing, praying on their knees, while the nuns were standing as orderly as the clerics in rank and files in the trans-septs, facing the crossing. The Paladins, which Draka now knew were only the three he had met, were standing ready for their return, displaying their full battle armor that were different in their designs, but just as formidable as Draka’s. Portis was at the Chapel of Saint Andre, Tilly at the Chapel of Saint Jean, and Enya, as the highest-ranking Paladin among them standing on the steps to the Apse.
The altar had been cleared of all but a wood plate and matching cup from within the barracks and raised on a wood board they had covered with a white cloth. The large chair that normally lay beneath the stained-glass visage of the Holy Mother had been moved to in front of it, with the two smaller chairs that were only sat in by Cardinals at the most important of communions, all eclipsed by the new height of the altar so as not to look mightier. Draka motioned for the Monastic Knights escorting the Cardinal to bring him to in front of Enya.
Enya nodded for the knights to move on to behind their commanding clerics once Cardinal Olivier was in front of her. Cardinal Olivier staggered a little, gave her a worried look, then turned to the display of not only the clerics and their assigned knights, but also his own. He was quavering. Draka could see it as he walked to the chairs on the apse. Enya gave him a subtle grin of approval. That, too, didn’t sit well with him. He wavered as his eyes moved over the empty ornate wooden chairs and their red cushioned seats.
He knew what it would mean to sit in it. He knew the declaration would cause waves throughout Christendom and, no matter how much good he intended with it, there would be consequences. The moment he takes his place, it will be louder than the horn being blown from the tallest tower. It will be heard in Utrecht, put in the ear of the King who had recognized him under the command of the Church Diocese, who considered him a vassal state, had expectations wrought with obligations that Draka would be ripping away in a single squat. It will be heard in Sodiulakim, with shouts of caution and protest from the Council of Cardinals, probably even Cardinal Thomas, whom he considered a father in all but blood. It was—at the time—Father Thomas who had baptized him in the Elbe River and sent him on his pilgrimage to the Holy Lands all those years ago. Would he be disappointed or proud? Enraged or endeared? The longer Draka looked at that center chair, the heavier this became.
He drew in a steadying breath and dug out the wad of parchments he had written before donning his armor from in the pocket inside his cuirass. He looked down at it, knowing that what was written in this, too, would have just as much impact. He held it out for Enya without turning to her as she took it. His eyes returned to the chair.
Cardinal Olivier seemed emboldened. “If I may,” he took a step towards Draka.
Enya grabbed his collar before his foot gained balance and pulled him back to exactly where he had been. She unfolded the wad and nodded. To the Cardinal, “These are the words—verbatim—of Paladin Grande Prince…”
“I know who they’re from, either read aloud or let me read it,” Cardinal Olivier snapped.
“Fine,” She shoved the parchment Draka had written for him into his chest. “You read it. Loud enough for the folk in the back.”
Cardinal Olivier huffed, took the paper, read a bit in silence, then shot wild eyes at Draka, who only saw because of a wayward side glance from that chair. “You can’t be…but,” Cardinal Olivier took a step toward him, felt the tug from Enya again, but let his robe fall from his shoulders to reach Draka’s side. “If I do this,” Cardinal Olivier moved between him and the chair, “You know how the King will react. You’ll be declaring yourself higher than a king. I will crown you Prince, but this…this is dangerous.”
Draka narrowed his eyes at him. Unmoved. He returned them to the chair, still unsure. He shifted the grip on the great sword whose blade was desperately trying not to tap the tip on the apse flooring. After a moment of thought, he turned to the Cardinal, then to Enya and nodded.
“Psst, Cardinal,” Enya leaned towards him. “You want to read this aloud or should I? Up to you. But, uhm, he wants it read now.”
Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.
Cardinal Olivier was astonished. Slowly, he went to Enya and looked at the next parchment and his knees dropped from beneath him.
“Mercy!” The Cardinal crawled toward Draka on his knees, prostrating himself at Draka’s feet.
The nuns finally turned their coifed heads to understand. The priests gasped. The monks were frozen. The Monastic Knights leaned over each other to see. The clerics and remaining Paladins remained vigilant in their positions of apt attention.
Cardinal Olivier kissed his boot tops. Draka lightly kicked him away. All he had to do was sit and it would all be done. The declaration would be made for the first time in nearly a hundred years. He knew it was what he had to do. He must sit in that chair. Although the Holy Spirit wasn’t drumming it into his bones, he knew he was being commanded to act and this was what he had at his disposal. This was his right. Laws were broken. Creeds were spat upon. Power misused. That chair was waiting, hovering in Draka’s sight as if it were begging for him to get on with it.
“Cardinal Peter Olivier,” Enya read at the top of her voice, turning to face the rest of the gathered, “You have been accused of disobedience against Jehovah Thy God, His Son Jesus Christ, in detriment and opposition to the Divine Universal Church, and the College of Holy Cardinals whose decrees you were given express awareness of, through your own actions, with intention of personal gain at the expense of another, by way of misapprehension and withholding of supplies from areas of interest in the Divine War against the Enemy of Jehovah Thy God and humanity; forming allegiances against the Holy Paladinate, the Divine Universal Church and its adjudicators…”
Cardinal Olivier stopped pleading to Draka and sunk into the ground, sobbing. Draka pursed his brow at the chair. It called to him, begged for him, reached out to him. And all he could do was stand there as his words were read.
Enya took a moment to calm her own nerves as she, too, gasped. “…Conspiring to commit murder, bribery, and theft; and…”
She took a moment to look in horror at the Cardinal trembling at Draka’s feet. She wiped her eyes.
After a long breath and dry swallow, she finished, “And the attempted murder through blatant incompetence and intentional machinations of leverage which has resulted in the unmitigated and unprecedented starvation of the populace—whose first casualties would be the youngest of children—of Strasbourg, therefore breaking your first and foremost oath as a man of God to help your fellow man.”
She let the parchment fall to her side as she tried to catch her breath. Then she took a step, raising her leg in a wide kick that would have landed the Cardinal’s chest had Draka not held a hand out. Now, Enya was feeling his rage flowing through her, as was everyone else in that Cathedral. All eyes had fallen to Cardinal Olivier, who trembled as he raised his dripping face to Draka.
“You deserve to be burned at the stake, you piece of—!” Enya was again stopped by a motion from Draka.
Draka looked down at Cardinal Olivier and shook his head. He motioned for Enya to read the rest.
Through gritted teeth and heavy breaths, Enya continued, “As per our beloved and most Holy laws, brought forth by the union of the Holy Paladinate and the College of the Cardinals of the Divine Universal Church, the Sacra Carta Pacis Deis, you, Peter Olivier, are hereby and immediately deposed of all your duties, obligations, entitlements, privileges, and stations, until which time the Council of Cardinals have conducted a proper investigation into these and any other unlawful and unholy actions you have committed, and decide your fate on this, God’s Earth. Until arrival to Sodiulakim, you shall be held in the custody of the Holy Paladinate, subject to all laws, creeds, and obligations, as deemed appropriate according to the commanding Paladin or Cleric, whichever is higher, at any given time.” With that, she spat at him, then growled, “Best hope there’s no demon surgencies between here and Sodiulakim. You’ll be on the front lines, if there are, best believe that.”
Draka snatched the parchment he had given the Cardinal from the ground beside him as the trembling man was taken between two Monastic Knights and dragged toward the crypt. Yet another thing he now had to figure out before too long.
He regarded the chair one last time before looking over the priests. They were all faceless to him. Unfamiliar. He looked to the nuns. No, the College would have him burned at the stake. Well, more like extend this damnable vow of silence even longer than it already was. No, he had to select a priest. He pointed at one and beckoned him with a finger.
The priest he picked was older, thin and wiry, but quick to step forward once Draka confirmed it was him. He knelt before Draka, a bible cradled in the crook of his arm. That was why Draka chose him. He was the only one who wasn’t a nun with a bible in his hands. And he was standing with the priests ranked as Bishops. He was eligible.
“I am Father Bruno Vollois.”
Draka gave him the parchment and took a step back from him. Another sideways glance at that chair.
Father Bruno looked at the parchment, then up at Draka, then to Enya, gaping. “Are you certain, Paladin Prince?”
Draka mulled it over for a moment. He felt the answer through his bones and gave it with a nod to the Father.
“Congratulations, you’re a Paladin-elect Cardinal Candidate,” Enya slapped his shoulder.
Draka looked at the parchment, then back up at him as if to ask, ‘Can you do it?’
“It must be done by an elected Cardinal proper, we now have none,” Father Bruno winced. “But I can send word to the College of Cardinals for speedy replacement as your elected candidate, having, I assume, taken on his duties and responsibilities?”
“That’s the way of it,” Enya nodded. So did Draka.
“I will get to it, then.” Father Bruno turned, stunned as much as the rest of them. Then, he stopped and asked, “Are we still to continue what we were doing before? I mean, with all our duties and such? Or are you fully seizing this as your—castle?”
All eyes turned to Draka, who winced. Now, he had to sit in that blasted chair!
He scoffed at himself. With a wave, he motioned for Enya to read the last parchment.
“Right,” She held it up and read out loud, her voice carrying through the nave even more boldly than before, “The Cathedral of Our Lady of Strasbourg will become the Bastion of Our Lady of Strasbourg under the protection, guidance, and control of the Holy Paladinate. All Masses, sacraments, rites, ordainments, and any other tasks or duties held by those whom are legitimate members of the Divine Universal Church, under the guidance of the College of the Cardinals, shall not be impeded or interfered with except when deemed necessary by the Paladin Grande Prince Dietrich of the Seven-Pointed Star.” Enya handed the parchment to Father Bruno with a stark, “Though they will be considered secondary to all Paladinate operations.”
Draka turned to face the nave for the first time since walking onto the apse with Cardinal Olivier in tow. Their faces were awestruck. Armored, coifed, men and women, all with curiosity mixed with a blend of worry and awe. He leaned his zweihander over the chair to the left of the center one.
Slowly, bracing with his hands on both arms of the larger seat, at the center, Draka eased himself into the chair. He stopped and straightened long before he actually sat and thinned his lips at it. Then at his armor.
“So, mass will still be the—mass?” Father Bruno blinked.
“Yes, we’re not going to stop people from going to church. What do we look like? Divorce lawyers?” Enya huffed.
Draka thumbed through the belts of his cuirasses on one side. He loosened the pauldrons and began to pull pins from the smaller plates that protected his sides. He didn’t care that the Cathedral had gone silent again. He didn’t care that confusion was taking over the faces. He didn’t care that it was taking a little too plowing long to get his butt in that seat. There was no way that he was going to wedge himself into that chair and scratch or break the thing with his armor for his first seating. Instead, he set the armor on the ground in front of the chair he had leaned the sword, leaving only his steel boots and shin plates where they were.
There was no easing this time. He just sat and rested an elbow on the armrest so he could let his head rest in his hand for a moment while he looked everyone over. His other arm drooped over his spread thighs. All that, and this was it. Not even a comfortable chair. Just a chair. Only…
The nuns were the first to turn towards him and lower themselves to their knees. Then the priests and monks. Then the clerics and their knights.
Like a tidal wave through the nave, shields lowered and heads bowed. Enya, Portis, and Tilly, did a heel clicking facing movement toward him, clapped fists over their hearts, drew their swords and lowered themselves on a single knee each. Their eyes were on him, all with wide, burgeoning smiles. They wanted to bow. But Paladins bow their heads to no king. They kneel and present their swords. The eye contact is important, too. A reminder that God is watching.
God is watching.
Draka took in a long breath as he regarded all of them, straightening in his throne. He should have just choked the Cardinal and be done with whatever this path the Lord has laid out before him entails. No doubt about it, he definitely can empathize with Jonah. Only, he’s certain he’s doing God’s Will and not running from it.
Fairly certain.
Pretty sure.
Mostly.
Great, now they're cheering.
