Black wizards - Douglas Niles [12]
Lord Galric lurched to his feet, splashing half the contents of his mug into the lap of the scowling Lord Koart, who sat beside him. As usual, Galric was drunk, and Tristan suppressed a smile – at least one of his rivals was ill-prepared to debate him.
"King Ken'rick," shouted Galric. "A splennid ruler 'n a fine figger of a man!"
"Hear! Hear!" The chorus of agreements was followed by more slurping swallows around the table.
Tristan examined the other lords, trying to determine who was most likely to offer him a challenge. Nearby sat Lord Koart and Lord Dynnatt. Neither had acquitted himself well during the war, and Tristan hoped this fact would be enough to mark them as unfit to rule. He knew them both to be ambitious, however, and the two lords were close friends – he had to beware of a potential coalition.
Farther down the table, Lord Galric's head was already dropping onto his chest. Galric ruled over a highland cantrev that had amassed considerable wealth from the mining of copper, iron, and silver. In any event, the lord was now too drunk to make a case for himself.
Beyond Lord Galric sat Lord Pontswain. He was a smooth, handsome man, with curling brown hair that flowed past his shoulders, and a firm, crackling voice that commanded attention. He had a sharp wit, and the cutting edge of his voice often left one wondering whether he had been complimented or insulted. The prince noticed that Pontswain's mug remained full. The lord spent more time sizing up the others at the table than he did in joining the toasting.
Pontswain ruled a large and wealthy cantrev to the southwest of Corwell. Tristan knew him to be very ambitious and judged him the most significant rival at the table.
The others, such as Lord Fergus of Kingsbay and Lord Macshea of Cantrev Macsheehan, ruled small fiefdoms which were still recovering from the war. Tristan judged these lords, as council members, to be honest and reasonable men, open to persuasion by the best candidate.
For a moment the prince thought again of the meeting's purpose. His father had been buried the night before, and he was about to make a case for himself to succeed the king. He could feel his palms beginning to sweat. His mug, like Pontswain's, sat before him, barely touched.
"My lords," he began, so softly that the group was forced to quiet in order to hear him, "I thank you all for attending this most significant council. Your presence at the funeral last night, as well, is appreciated.
"My father served as king for twenty-seven years. With one notable exception, these were years of peace and prosperity. Trading vessels call regularly here and at Kingsbay. Taxes have remained low – practically nonexistent for those with little means to pay. I think you will all agree that he allowed you to rule your fiefdoms with little interference.
"When our neighbors in Moray suffered the misfortune of an invasion of Northmen, King Kendrick and the forces of Corwell were decisive in defeating the invasion.
"And last summer, when our own kingdom felt the brunt of such an invasion, he rallied the cantrevs to ultimate victory." Tristan didn't want to overstate his father's role in that conflict, for he knew that his own contribution gave him his best claim to the throne.
"In that campaign, where the stalwart Lords Koart and Dynnatt fought beside my own company, the Ffolk of Corwell drove off not only an army of Northmen, but supernatural horsemen. We triumphed with the aid of this potent sword -" he gestured to the Sword of Cymrych Hugh, "- over the Beast that the Northmen called their master!"
The prince paused, willing each of the lords to recall the Darkwalker War. "Many are the