The first course was simple; a salad of baby spinach, diced tart apple, crumbled pieces of a fragrant blue cheese, drizzled in a raspberry vinegarette, topped with a dusting of ground chicharron. It was the ideal prelude to the main course, that arrived at the table with glorious effect, less than a minute after Brett had laid down his fork.
Set upon the table, atop a bed of leafy greens and surrounded by a ring of roasted, braided herbs, displayed upon a golden platter, was the succulent roasted head of a skinned wild boar; eyes and ears removed, it's snout in air, an apple, stuffed in its gaping mouth, with tusks still attached. The scent of savory herbs and roasted pork filled the space, and Casmir's grin grew with devilish delight at the sight of Brett's growing discomfort.
The whites of Brett's eyes were as visible as the beads of sweat on his brow, and the loosening of his tie. His smile became strained and his enthusiasm for the meeting, had all but vanished.
Coming in behind the boar's head, Enzo delivered the sides. Two cast iron ramekins, one of Brussel sprouts with ham and cranberries, the other of fingerling potatoes seasoned with rosemary and thyme, both roasted to perfection, just the slightest of burn appearing on the edges most exposed to the heat. And lastly, in an extraordinary ceramic serving dish, whose tiny legs and rim were painted in gold, an apple slaw topped with dried cranberries, and beside it, a tray of three small pots, one filled with honey, the next of apple sauce, and the last of a brown sugar, bourbon, barbeque sauce.
The table displayed a proper feast, fit for the kings and nobles of old. And while the message was lost on Brett, to Casimir and Hutch it couldn't have screamed louder, for together they'd seen similar once before.
Hutch lunged forward bringing down his wooden training sword towards Cascel.
"Why do you always have to be right?" he shouted, his sword clanging against Cascel's shield, sending drops of oil splattering about.
"Because," Cascel replied, stepping forward and pushing Hutch back, "you insist on being wrong."
Hutch dropped to his knee, breathing heavy.
"Four years of this and your balance still need works," Cascel critiqued.
"Yeah, thanks, I'm aware," he huffed, sweat dripping from his brow, and soaking through his shirt.
"I'm actually amazed you can ride as well as you do, but still manage to wonder how you can walk in a straight line." Cascel smiled and wiped the sweat from his own brow using the cloth underside of his bracer.
"That's your most pathetic insult yet," Hutch replied, as he lugged himself back onto his feet.
Cascel snickered. "Certainly not my best. I'll try harder next time. But that's more than enough for today," he said motioning to Barhalis, who'd just entered the training grounds and was making his way towards them. "Go clean up. Duty calls."
"Too bad. I wasn't quite done beating the crap out of you yet."
"And for that little comment, oil my equipment as well," Cascel remarked with a wide grin, holding out his wooden sword and shield towards him.
"Ow, touch petty, old man," Hutch replied, adding Cascel's equipment to his own. "Not sure any of this needs more oil, it's soaked through as it is."
"The grecitatin oil serves a purpose, Moahaba," Barhalis spoke as he joined them. "It makes the wood of our training equipment as strong as stone. Without it, this wood would splinter and break with a single blow. It adds weight, makes everything heavy, so that our real weapons feel light. It teaches you not to lose your grip, once your own sword becomes soaked in blood, and trains you not to flinch at the splatters when they strike you or waste time wiping them away. Everything has a purpose, what is yours today?"
"To clean and oil this training equipment," Hutch replied, as Barhalis stared down at him.
"There is a meeting in our division's quarters in one hour. Do not be late."
"Sir," Hutch replied, bowing his head, before turning and walking away.
"There is a problem." He heard Barhalis say.
"What kind?" Cascel replied.
"The king's been invited to a feast. Jaawern thinks it's best if we all go along."
An hour later, cleaned up and changed, Hutch arrived in the first divisions meeting room where several members were already waiting, the rest coming in shortly behind him, with Cascel and Barhalis arriving last with General Swotep of the fourth division in tow.
"The situation is unusual, so pay attention. One of the younger nobles, an upstart named Cegal, surname of Artolyum, invited our king to a feast some time ago. That feast is to be held tonight. The fourth division was to be attending. However, as recently as this morning, our spies have informed us that there has been talk of an assassination, and treachery amongst the noble houses, more so with those who have deep connections with the more troublesome tribal chiefs. Tonight, we will be attending alongside the fourth, although it is doubtful that our presence will deter whatever plans these traitors have in store. General Swotep will be filling us in on the details. Listen closely. We have two hours left to prepare," Barhalis explained before stepping aside, giving the other general the floor.
With the situation in mind, details and orders were given out by General Swotep. Those two hours passed by swiftly, as the King's Guard made their final preparations. And when the time came, the first division, clad in their ceremonial armor, marched behind the king's carriage, with the fourth leading the procession through the streets of Qor'ropi.
The Artolyum manor was nestled comfortably on a plot of land nearest the outer wall, in the southeastern part of city, known as the Nobels district. It was one of the newer, and therefore larger homes, built in the years following the eradication of the previous noble families in the wake of Salvador's rise to power. In recent years, however, the previous lord Artolyum, had died, and Cegal, the eldest son, had risen to take his place, remaining far less loyal than his father before him.
As expected, nearly all the nobles suspected of conspiring against the king were in attendance, along with several tribal chiefs. This was not the first attempt on the king's life, and it obviously wouldn't be the last, but so few were ever so bold or audacious as to set the roasted, severed head of a tuwambo, a creature that resembled the Babirusa of earth with the vertical growing tusks, and prominent snout, before the King.
Such was a message of dissatisfaction, distrust, and the desire to see the end of a king's reign. To place it directly before a king, was not only a message, but an insult and a slight, one that was meant to be answered silently, as it was done in the presence of nobles and chiefs. Etiquette on such matters had been refined throughout the ages, and perhaps many at that feast expected that Salvador would follow those unspoken rules, accepting the head and its message, not as a threat, but as a conveyance of their dislike for his rule. Accepting it in a calm and gracious manner, was to relay to his people, that their grievance had been heard, and to tell them of his willingness to be diplomatic, to open dialogue, and to attempt to come to some sort of understanding.
But, more often than not, the severed head of the tuwambo had come to be a symbol of treachery and betrayal, and it was a message meant to go unanswered. However, those nobles, for all their planning and valiant efforts, they had failed in their mission. For even as they drew their hidden blades, and the tribal warriors flooded into the dining hall, the King sat poised upon his chair, calm and unaffected behind his dark grey veil, protected by his most formidable of guards.
There was little the rabble could do against them, their weapons, primitive spears, were little more than sticks against their armor. They lacked the reach of the guard's pikes, the accuracy of their bows, and strength of the metal they were crafted from. Their hide armor, as fanciful as it was, was a terrible substitute for plate, and rigorous training. Without words, the two divisions could work seamlessly together to the point where not a single man, woman, or warrior, came within striking distance of the King.
The feast was yet another massacre under Salvador's reign, brought on the hubris of lessor men. Screams echoed within the stone walls of the hall, as the would-be assassins, fell upon pikes and swords. Severed limbs, fell like chunks of meat, and bodies collapsed into piles, until the last trembling gasp of life vacated the room.
Blood stained near every inch of the hall, pouring out from under robes and severed limbs, all while the eyes of the roasted tuwambo were stared at by the silent, unimpressed King.