Tales & Treasure Chapter 33

Vatis - The Fall of Slavanes Greco

Start from the beginning - Tales & Treasure Table of Contents

Vatis looked around the room; everyone waited patiently, except for Hobb; the farmer seemed to study every move he made. Vatis tried to ignore the old man and focus on the rest of his audience. No one was too drunk or had a generational hatred of foreigners. He was in his element – a fire gently warming the cozy house, a crisp breeze in the late-summer air, a bittersweet ale in his mug, and a story frolicking on his tongue.

“Right,” he began. “Our story opens in Barna, as one might expect. King Slavanes Greco has been on the throne for nearly three decades. He has grown old and fat and complacent. His only son, Davor, leads his armies against the Numerian uprising in the south. Rumors have started to spread of another threat growing in the north. A group of rebels called The Pact with a simple mission – protect the forgotten and dethrone Greco.” 

Vatis stopped. How can I coax more information out of Hobb?  “Greco didn’t consider them a threat. The technologically advanced Numerians had innovative siege weapons, the world’s best navy, and a tribe of loyal giants – they were the real threat. The Pact was a group of uneducated rebels led by a charismatic trickster named Dinardo. Some say he could use magic. Others say he was a fantastic performer who deceived his opponents with sleight-of-hand, but all agree, he was deadly with a blade.”

Vatis sipped the last of his ale, pushing the empty mug toward Taldor. The boy took the hint and quickly retrieved a pitcher from the kitchen. Where do I go from here? Dethroning stories were usually straightforward – rebels rise quicker than expected and overthrow a complacent king. This story happened many times throughout the history of Emre; in fact, it happened just eight years ago when Kandrian Ambita unseated Pavao Begic. Begic was a thoroughly idiotic and delusional king who focused on trifles like crossing the Kaharn Desert and preparing for The Final Darkness. The Church of Eternal Darkness owed Begic thanks; without his devotion, the religion would have stayed tucked in caverns where it belonged. 

Vatis realized he’d exaggerated his pause too long as Mia’s curt nods urged him to continue. “As I was saying,” he said, clearing his throat. “Greco did not view The Pact as a threat and paid them little heed, but in the Islingrey Mountains, that acorn grew into a sapling, and its bark began to harden. Now, we know the players: Greco, Numeria, and The Pact; let’s advance to the Harvest feast. Greco held an enormous festival with bards, performers, exotic merchants, and duels yearly. This year, Greco opened the duels to everyone in the Emre except for Numerians. Anyone who could pay the modest entry fee and hold a sword was eligible for the grand prize – the lordship of Numeria. As you can imagine, hundreds of vagabonds, rogues, sellswords, farmers, and soldiers entered. With a field this large and a prize so valuable, Greco felt a need to raise the stakes. Yields were outlawed; every duel was to the death.”

Igni interrupted the story as he scratched the door, wanting to go outside. “Sorry,” Taldor said, opening the creaky-hinged door. He sat back down with his head propped up by his upturned palms. 

“Can you pass that pitcher?” Vidmar asked. “Thank you.” He filled his cup, and Kamet’s after the mercenary leaned forward eagerly. 

Once everyone returned to their comfortable, attentive postures, Vatis continued. “Once the new rules were announced, a few dropped out, but fewer than you would imagine. The chance to become lord of Numeria was too great, even if it meant losing one’s life. The leader of The Pact, Dinardo, entered the tourney. His skill with a blade was legendary, but his captains felt the risk was too significant. If he were to die, their cause would be lost. 

Dinardo laughed at his pessimistic captains. ‘Greco has invited me to his doorstep and given me lordship of his biggest rival. We cannot fail; our cause is just, and our hearts are strong. If I falter, another shall take my place.’ 

His enthusiasm and confidence persuaded his captains. A week later, Dinardo and two companions left their stronghold in the mountains and began the journey to Barna. During this time, Greco grew proud of his scheme for the entry fees alone paid for the feast, and he felt that a simple duelist would be easy to control in Numeria, even if his hand-selected champion, Pylades, didn’t win. Pylades was Greco’s personal guard, a half-giant, natural-born killer whose gold-handled morning star’s spikes were dyed crimson from its victim’s blood. Other than Greco, there was no man more feared in all Emre. The giant was only Greco’s guard because the King was the only man ever to defeat him in combat, but that is a story for a different day,” Vatis took a long drink of the sour ale, notes of cherry sang sweet songs on his lips.

Taking advantage of the pause, the ever-inquisitive Taldor asked a question. “I thought Pylades was a full giant, and his flail could anchor a boat on the Clemil River.”

“Common mistake,” Vatis said. “Many of my predecessors had a penchant for exaggeration. While there was still one tribe of pure-bred giants in those days, most cherished nature and detested violence. Half-giants like Pylades were cruel, hard folk who lived on the desert’s outskirts. Though I’m still not entirely sure why they are called half-giants, men were about half as tall as real giants by all accounts, and I’ve seen a half-giant who was twice the size of me. Most texts and scholars agree that giants are thinner and taller, while half-giants are thicker and more broad-shouldered. Anyway, we have gone off course. Pylades was a menacing half-giant who used a morningstar, not a flail.”

“Sorry,” Taldor said shyly.

“No need to apologize, Taldor. It was a good question.”

“Show me a decent warrior who uses a flail, and I’ll show you the path through the Kaharn,” Kamet said, slurring his words slightly.

Vidmar laughed. “I saw a young officer ride into battle waving a flail about like a child with a stick, only to have an arrow plunge into his chest as soon as he was in range. They look frightening mounted on a wall, but I agree with Kamet. A flail is useless in a real fight.”

“We aren’t here to debate the merit of weapons. Continue, please,” Hobb said. 

“Thank you, Hobb,” Vatis said. Why is he so keen to hear this story?

 “Where were we? Dinardo and his companions are traveling to Barna. Greco is preparing for the feast. I’ve introduced Pylades; ah, yes, to Numeria we go. Alanas Fadus, the self-proclaimed King of Numeria, led an assault on Davor’s forces outside a small lumber mill that would later become the town of Aswar. Well, I suppose I should back up slightly; Fadus valued knowledge and technology above all things. He craved it. While Fadus was quite the scholar and inventor, most of Numeria’s advancements can be attributed to Euclio, his Master of Knowledge. Euclio recently invented the ballista, not as deadly as the modern version we have today but effective enough to wreak havoc on a battlefield. Let’s summarize without getting into battle strategy by saying Davor led the world’s finest infantry unit, so fine that he brought little to no cavalry. The legion of one hundred ballistas mowed down the infantry like grass under a scythe. Davor himself was brought down by one of the massive bolts. His body was later displayed like a flag on the walls until his corpse fell into the moat. It was a devastating defeat for Greco, personally and militarily.”

Vatis scratched his chin. Where do I go from here? We can skim the Numeria conflict and focus on Dinardo, Greco, and the duels. He ripped off a chunk of fresh, brown bread; the light, airy inside was sweet, melting in his mouth. He tore off another piece and continued. 

“Greco was outraged. In one defeat, he lost his only male heir and his foothold in the south. There was only one small regiment of Cavalry keeping Numeria from marching. He wrote in his journal the day he heard the news: 

‘My heart has been ripped from my chest. I am empty. After the festival, I shall muster my final assault on Fadus, the usurper, and put this nonsense to rest.’ 

Greco’s descent into madness had begun. His advisors urged him to show restraint; Greco wanted to join the duels to prove his worth, but Pylades vowed to win in his honor. While unhappy, the King was satisfied. Now, let’s return to Dinardo. Word had reached him of the Numerian’s victory and the death of Davor. He knew the King would be desperate. 

He said to his companions, ‘Fortune favors us, my friends. For the gods have distracted our enemy and left him vulnerable.’ 

His companions were weary; they thought that Greco would become reckless. And they were right. Reckless is the best way to describe Greco’s actions over the next week. He drank himself into belligerence by noon every day, executed every prisoner in his cells, and dispatched his navy toward Numeria. Meanwhile, Dinardo and his friends arrived in Barna with a day to spare before the first duels.”

Vatis looked at Hobb, but the old man scowled and nibbled on a piece of dried beef. The rest of his audience eagerly awaited the climax of the story. Ev pulled his stool closer, Taldor’s wide brown eyes rarely blinked, and Mia stopped eating cherries. 

“Right, here we are, the first day of the duels. Now, I must include this, in his impulsive rashness, Greco added traps to the arena. He wrote this in a nearly ineligible script the night before the duels:

‘If the cowards won’t let me duel, I’ll take lives with spikes, pits, and flames.’ 

We don’t know what he meant by flames, but we know that he added a ring of spikes to impale any duelist who ventured too far away from their opponent and two large pits, one with snakes and the other with stakes. Dinardo toured the arena before his first duel. His companions once again urged him to reconsider and withdraw. 

He said, ‘It’s too late, my friends, but this is good news; perhaps my more qualified opponents will find an unfortunate death.’ 

Dinardo’s optimism was a trait many admired, a quality that won him many followers. His first match was against a rabid-looking beggar, who somehow collected enough coin to enter the duels. Most duelists will tell you that desperation is not ideal for competition; it works well on a battlefield but leads to mistakes in the arena. The match was over seconds after it began. Dinardo positioned himself in front of the pit. The crazed branch-wielding beggar charged, trying to push Dinardo into the hole, but he sidestepped and watched his opponent tumble to his death.” 

Hobb coughed. The spasms escalated from a short throat-clearing to violent tremors. Ev and Taldor seemed unconcerned. This must happen often, Vatis thought. Maybe that’s why he’s humoring us. His days are numbered. Hobb wiped a speck of blood off his lip with a handkerchief. 

“Are you alright?” Vidmar asked.

Ev and Taldor shook their heads simultaneously as if urging Vidmar to stop his questioning. “I’m fine,” Hobb said sharply.

Vatis took this signal to continue the story. “Dinardo breezed through his next two opponents, sending another eager challenger into the pit of stakes and pushing the other into the ring of spikes before mercifully ending his life with one deft stroke.” 

Hobb coughed again, muffling the sound with his fist before he waved at Vatis to proceed. 

“Pylades, conversely, dominated his first three opponents, decapitating two and throwing another into the snake pit. He laughed as the venomous cobras sank their fangs into his opponent, barely old enough to be considered a man. The first day was nearly finished, but both Pylades and Dinardo had one more match. Blood, urine, ale, and mud covered the sandy arena floor. Pylades drew his match, a boy, no more than ten. The boy had fought valiantly, catching two bandits by surprise with his quickness and a throwing knife; his other opponent was so drunk that he wielded a mug of ale as his weapon. He was the snake’s first victim of the day. The boy’s mother wailed when he drew Pylades, but the boy stepped forward bravely, spinning his daggers around like a juggler enticing the crowd before his act. The match lasted longer than expected. The boy used quickness to keep his distance from Pylades; he even dazzled the crowd by weaving in and out of the exterior spikes. But Pylades was too patient and cunning. He waited for the boy to make a mistake, and soon, the boy slipped on the muddy surface. The half-giant lunged forward, driving his sword through the boy’s chest as he tried to rise. The crowd wailed with disappointment, but Greco smiled. His champion had made it to day two.”

Mia tried to cover a yawn with her hand, but Vatis noticed - a bard always sees a yawning audience. It either means the story is boring or too long. Although, in Mia’s case, he was sure it was exhaustion. 

“We can finish the story another time,” Vatis said, looking at Mia. 

“No. I’m fine,” she said, rubbing her eyes. 

I don’t plan to be here tomorrow night, so we must finish, Vatis thought.

“Put another log on the fire, Evanor,” Hobb commanded. Ev didn’t respond, but he obeyed.

Vatis waited for Ev to sit on his stool; the boy’s muscles tensed, and his eyes glared wide with anger. He’s teetering on a knife’s edge. One more push and he’s gone. Vatis found it strange how much Ev seemed to resent Hobb. Maybe he’s just a young man with ambition, or perhaps, he has reasonable cause. Vatis took a sip of ale and continued his story, putting aside his thoughts of Hobb and Evanor’s relationship. 

“Dinardo’s final match of the day was a man he knew well, a soldier called Storm. He was smaller than Dinardo, but there wasn’t a faster man in all of Emre; he wielded two short swords and liked to spin at his opponent like a tornado, hence the nickname. We don’t know his real name, but that is of little importance to this story. He is one of the more sympathetic figures that served Greco – another tale for another day. Storm and Dinardo had history. They met on the battlefield two times before the duel; the first time they met, Dinardo forced him to yield, and Storm was held captive for two weeks before he escaped. The second time, Storm beat Dinardo and left him to die on the bank of the Clemil River. Fortunately for Emre, Dinardo survived. Now, on to the duel. The only contestant Greco openly rooted for other than Pylades was Storm, his backup plan. Until this point, Greco had not realized who Dinardo was. He looked like a common soldier, tall but not giant, muscular but not enormous, with long brown hair and a scarred face. He looked like half the contestants in the tourney. It was another reason people flocked to him; he was the common man. The two men walked into the arena smiling. 

‘Storm, it’s been too long,’ Dinardo said. 

Strom stepped back; his smile vanished. ‘I thought you were dead, Dinardo.’ 

The King leaped from his throne, spitting over the guardrail that separated him from the audience. ‘Dinardo,’ he screamed. A murmur flowed through the crowd. The King sensed the audience’s admiration. ‘This is the Dinardo my advisors are so worried about,’ Greco said, laughing. ‘At least they can sleep better tonight knowing you’re dead. Show no mercy, Storm.’ 

Dinardo didn’t acknowledge the King. Storm bowed. ‘As you command.’ 

Dinardo walked the arena’s edge, never taking his eyes off his opponent. ‘So obedient, Storm. You disappoint me.’ 

Lightning coursed through Storm; he bolted forward, pressing Dinardo in range of the spikes. Greco waited on the edge of his seat, watching as if his life depended on it, and perhaps it did. Dinardo countered the fierce blows, parrying both swords and reversing their position in the arena. Storm’s back was to the ring of spikes; he tried to push forward to create distance, but Dinardo held his ground. 

‘You need to learn some new tricks, Storm,’ Dinardo said, blocking another flurry of strikes. His quips enraged Storm. Dinardo ducked under a horizontal slash, then rolled sideways to avoid the other blade’s downward stroke. ‘See, there you go. That’s a good trick. You nearly had me,’ Dinardo said, panting. 

This back and forth went on for some time. The orange setting sun cast long shadows on the arena floor, making the slippery footing even more precarious. Finally, Storm’s strikes began to slow. Say what you will about speed, but endurance wins challenging duels, and Dinardo’s was renowned. His opponent tried to continue his hurricane onslaught, but the tempest had lost most of its power. Storm launched his final attack, mustering as much force as he had left. He spun. Dinardo parried. Dinardo leaped backward over the pit onto the other side with one carefully calculated flip. Storm’s momentum was unstoppable. He screamed as he slipped into the pit of snakes.”

Mia gasped. There was nothing quite like a gasp from an audience. It meant they were listening and engaged, and the bard had done his job conveying the drama. Vatis smirked. Mia was quickly becoming his favorite traveling companion. Not only had she saved his life, but she was one of the most interested audience members he had ever performed for. She deserves better, Vatis thought. But, as much as he liked her, Vatis needed to find a way to separate from her. Nothing good happens to anyone that’s with me for too long. Another one of his dramatic pauses had lingered. 

“Greco wailed, stomping his feet like a toddler. ‘Save him,’ he yelled. ‘Pull him up.’ 

Dinardo furrowed his brow and looked through the crowd before he addressed the King. ‘Are you not a man of your word?’ he said. 

Greco’s eyes reddened with rage. ‘Shut your mouth, you vagabond. I am King, not you; you will never sit upon my throne. Save Storm or face my judgment.’ 

A voice echoed from below. ‘It’s too late,’ Storm called wearily. ‘Dinardo, hasten my death. I’d rather die by the blade than poison.’ Dinardo looked to the King, who was biting his lower lip so hard that blood dripped down his chin. ‘Please,’ Storm called again. 

Finally, Greco relented with a single curt nod. 

‘I’m sorry, Storm. You deserved a better death, but I can grant you your request,’ Dinardo said, throwing a hidden blade into the snake pit and ending the life of one of Emre’s greatest warriors. The crowd cheered for Dinardo louder than they had for any fighter that day. 

Greco’s rage worsened. ‘You’re only delaying the inevitable, Dinardo. Tomorrow, Pylades will massacre you like the dog you are.’ 

Dinardo continued waving to the crowd. ‘Let him try. There are plenty of dogs in my Pact,’ he said. The crowd’s cheers echoed throughout the city.

A brief stop in the story allowed crickets to voice their chirping song. Igni added percussion as he scratched another itch behind his ear. A barn owl hooted to complete the melody. Vatis rubbed his thumb against his opposite palm, opening his hand like a merchant showcasing his wares. 

“So we can go to sleep at some point tonight. I will skip to the main event. Pylades and Dinardo drew each other in the semifinal match. They both breezed through their first two opponents. The first semifinal match was between two knights who fought classically with swords, shields, and heavy armor. Sir Boethus, an older knight who served Greco loyally for over a decade, advanced to the final with a well-placed stab between his opponent’s breastplates. Greco was pleased; he was sure a loyal subject would win the prize. Nobody could defeat Pylades in single combat, or so he thought. The crowd cheered as Dinardo entered the arena; they erupted as he slithered between the spikes and handed a white rose to a girl in the front row. 

‘Enough pageantry, Dinardo. Your death is nigh. May the beggars that follow you meet the same fate.’ Greco said, obviously drunk. 

Dinardo bowed one final time to the crowd before he responded. ‘If I die, another shall take my place. We have given voice to the voiceless, and they will not be silenced.’ 

The crowd’s roar shook the arena until Greco extended a fist. ‘See, they will always obey me. No matter how much you flatter them. They know who keeps them safe.’ A murmur weaved through the crowd like a rat. ‘Enough. It’s time to end this nonsense. Fight.’ 

Pylades wasted no time and charged Dinardo, swinging his morningstar above his head. The half-giant won most of his fights with intimidation and a quick stroke, but if one could survive the initial onslaught, they stood a chance. Dinardo took notes from the unfortunate boy, who almost beat Pylades. He had to move quickly and strike swiftly.”

Vatis refreshed himself with a sip of ale, then continued. 

“Dinardo spun out of the way of the first attack and rolled between the legs of Pylades, slicing the half-giant’s calf as he passed through. Pylades hammered his weapon into the ground, but Dinardo sidestepped. The colossal weapon left a hole in the mud. 

‘Get him,’ Greco commanded from his perch. 

Dinardo tried the same trick as the boy and began weaving in and out of the ring of spikes. Pylades’ frustration boiled over, and he swung his weapon, destroying the carefully constructed trap and making more room for Dinardo to run. 

‘Kill him, kill him, kill him,’ Greco screamed desperately. 

Dinardo kept moving; he kept running, using his legendary endurance to wear down his opponent. He slid under another blow and stabbed the half-giant behind the knee. Pylades shrieked and wobbled but didn’t fall. 

‘No,’ Greco wailed. 

The half-giant faked an attack with his morningstar, then backhanded the swerving Dinardo across the arena onto the edge of the spike pit. The crowd gasped collectively. Pylades pounced like a lioness on her prey and swung his mighty weapon down. Dinardo rolled with inhuman speed, but the blow nicked his left shoulder. He winced. The weapon’s crude spikes tore a deep gash; blood trickled down his arm. Pylades sprung again, and once more, Dinardo rolled away with indescribable speed despite his injury. The half-giant roared in frustration. 

‘How?’ Greco cried from his seat.

Dinardo’s arm hung low, but he dove under a barehanded strike, somehow managing to stab Pylades behind his other knee. A thunderous bellow escaped as the half-giant fell. He swung his weapon around, but his momentum carried him too far forward, and he landed face-first in the mud. Dinardo leaped on this back, buried his long sword between his helm and armor, and somersaulted backward to avoid any last effort. The crowd was silent until Greco released a drawn-out, ‘No.’ 

“What happened next?” Taldor asked excitedly. He covered his mouth with his hand after the question like it had escaped of its own accord. “Sorry.”

Vatis laughed.” No need to be sorry, Taldor,” he said. 

“The crowd showered Dinardo with flower petals and praise, cheering until Greco held his fist in the air. 

‘Settle down. Sir Boethus is too disciplined to fall for your tricks. He will not fail me.’ 

Dinardo smiled. ‘Boethus is admirable. I hope you are not disappointed tomorrow.’ 

Greco glowered, signaling Sir Boethus forward. ‘There’s been a change of plan,’ he said, grinning wickedly. ‘The championship duel is now.’ 

Dinardo was exhausted, and his shoulder needed urgent care, but he grinned and said. ‘Good, I have plans to dethrone a king tomorrow.’ 

Greco scowled. ‘Sounds like treason to me, and my dragon grows hungry.’ 

Dinardo held his injured arm, saluting the king with a crimson palm. ‘My great King. I was referring to that scoundrel Fadus and his Numerians. Or is lordship no longer the prize?’ 

Dinardo stepped backward as Sir Boethus entered the arena. The old knight’s squire tightened the straps of his armor, handing him a circular wooden shield with an azure-painted dragon on its face, as well as a neatly polished longsword with an ornate jeweled pommel and long curved guard atop its handle. ‘It seems you’ve upgraded your sword,’ Dinardo said. It was, in fact, the King’s sword, Wyvern’s Fang, made from the finest steel in all Emre. There wasn’t a finer blade ever crafted before or since.”

“Well, that’s debatable,” Kamet said. 

“Shut up, Kamet. Let him finish,” Vidmar said, holding out a hand in apology. 

“As I was saying, Greco lent his sword to Sir Boethus. 

‘That sword has never lost a battle, Dinardo.’ The King said, satisfied with the trap he had sprung. Although he had been disappointed with the results of his first two plans, an exhausted, injured Dinardo against a rested, well-equipped knight was a duel Greco believed he would win. 

‘Mine has lost plenty,’ Dinardo said, holding out his ordinary-looking blade. ‘But it’s honest and true.’ 

Greco held up his arm to begin the duel. ‘Anything you want to say to the rabble that follows you,’ he said, but as Dinardo started to speak, he lowered his fist and called, ‘Fight.’ 

Dinardo laughed and settled into a defensive stance. He expected Sir Boethus to be aggressive, and he was right. When the king gives you his sword and watches your every move, what choice do you have but to assert dominance? He parried each attack decisively, displaying more discipline than in previous duels. The knight slid into a series of progressively aggressive attacks, but Dinardo parried each one. His last block left Sir Boethus’s left side open; he riposted, landing a piercing blow under the Knight’s arm into his heart, ending the fight minutes after it started. Some say it was the most accurate strike in the history of duels as if Dinardo somehow slowed down time around him. To avoid a calculated attack, parry, spin, then stab at a narrow, closing gap with enough strength to follow through to the heart - why it’s a move instructors awe young squires with today. Sir Boethus perished almost immediately. Greco’s face turned purple before he erupted over the roaring crowd. 

‘No,’ he shouted as ale and spit poured out his mouth. ‘This isn’t possible.’ 

Dinardo grabbed the King’s sword from the dead knight’s hand and thrust it over his head. The crowd exploded with praise. 

‘You will never be lord of Numeria,’ Greco shouted. Dinardo gestured for the crowd to quiet. 

‘I never expected to be,’ he said. ‘You know this sword is remarkably light. I thought it would be heavier.’ 

‘Put it down,’ Greco shouted before whistling twice. A second later, ten archers appeared on the roof of the arena. Of course, the King had another plan. Greco always had another plan. That’s why he had been king for nearly three decades, but he continued to underestimate Dinardo. 

‘So, this is how you treat the winner of your tourney. I’m glad the people will see the kind of man you truly are.’ Cries of ‘monster’ and ‘craven’ emerged from the mumbling crowd. 

Vatis paused and tried to dislodge a piece of dried meat from his teeth. Where should I end the story? He thought while sipping the last of his ale. Where does Hobb believe it will end?

 “Greco addressed the crowd. ‘This man would not protect you. Bandits and rogues would ravage our city, yet I’m the villain. Your King, who freed you from slavery. Your King who has kept you safe for thirty years. My punishments are harsh, but that’s what keeps you safe. Don’t come crawling back when vagabonds leave you homeless, you ungrateful whelps.’ 

The crowd quieted, weighing the king’s words. 

‘To me, freedom is worth more than safety,’ Dinardo said. ‘And I think the people will agree.’ 

A murmur of agreement waved through the crowd. 

‘Ha, an ideal of the young, you don’t know the cost of freedom. No matter. Your rebellion ends here. Archers.’ Greco commanded, holding up his hand. 

The crowd gasped. Dinardo planted his sword in the ground, knelt, and rested his head on the pommel. 

‘Loose.’ Ten blue feathered arrows flew from the roof, darting at the defenseless champion. The arena was silent. The birds ceased chirping; the wind stopped whistling, dogs quit barking, and the packed, blood-soaked arena was still. Then, a blinding flash of light rose from the ground around Dinardo, and he vanished. His sword remained planted in the ground as ten arrows lodged into the mud where he had knelt. A crash shook the arena like thunder after lightning, and Dinardo reappeared behind the King. 

‘You are no longer worthy of this crown,’ Dinardo said, ripping the golden crown from Greco’s head. Before the King could react, Dinardo disappeared again, only to reappear next to his sword between the crude circle of arrows meant to end his life. 

‘Citizens of Barna, of Haran, of Emre, your time is now. Claim what is yours. Take your freedom from the tyrant who stole it from you. Do not squander this opportunity. We will return. For now, I have another battle to fight. Do not fail me here,’ Dinardo said. 

Light flashed around him again, and he disappeared, taking Greco’s sword and crown with him. The crash that followed him ignited a riot that lasted two months. Without his sword or Pylades to guard him, Greco was beaten and stuffed into his torturous dragon. The blood-thirsty crowd cheered as they roasted their former king alive, suffering the same fate that he condemned so many. Thus ended the second-longest reign in Emre’s history. Some say Dinardo returned as they burnt Greco alive, which caused him and his Pact to move east. Others say he intended to cause chaos. Either way, Barna’s rebellion and the disappearance of Dinardo and The Pact are tales for another night. Let us end here: Dinardo prevailed, magic existed, and for three centuries, heroes and villains alike searched for the power he wielded; some still search to this day.”