The Fall of the Thrones -- bit o' short fiction

So this is a little short I'm working on, set within my D&D campaign setting. HOW NARCISSISTIC CAN I GET. Anyway, here it is: The Fall of the Thrones.

The dwarf had served the Archlector for nearly sixty years, and never had he seen the city in such a state. Reduced to its knees, Dolnon was being swallowed by the Emperor's armies as surely as a whale will swallow a fish. From the south gate came the drab brown banners proclaiming the entrance of the Mendicant Knights into the city. What happenstance could have brought them to this? the dwarf wondered. Vaela was the mannish goddess of the roads, and of pilgrims. In the past six decades it would have been rare to see two of them together, let alone the hundred or so now passing through the Gate of Fortune. From the eastern gate, the Door of Clouds, the banners of the general's van could be seen: a sword, point down, on a grey field surmounted by a rod lying horizontally across the chief. The dwarf was not surprised at THAT–the mercenary Order of Haelor believed in fighting.

Most of the paladins of the North must be within the city walls by now, the dwarf thought. There couldn't be more than two or three thousand of them, all told, in the whole of the lands north of the Narrows. The Sword Militant must have gathered its members from all its minor outposts to field such a vanguard. And behind them came the untold numbers of the Imperial soldiery. They certianly made for a sight. Mendicant Brothers in brown travel-stained sack cloth cloaks with shabby ringmail, Order knights in shining plate, and the ragged men drafted from the Emperor's newly acquired colonies behind. Even a few newly made lords where among them, resplendant in silken tunics from Mughar or Ralashar. The city guard of Dolnon, the last forces left to the Council of Thrones, wore cheap Meirenian wool.

Oh, there were a few Throne Knights left. But they were all sequestered in the council chambers along with himself, the Archlector, and the Thrones that had not gone off to fight in the green fields and water the pastures with their own blood. The dwarf scoffed. The Order of the Sword prided themselves in defending the smallfolk, in fighting wars where few innocents where injured. Perhaps that was true when they were rousting orcs or battling goblin kingdoms, even when they repelled elvish Reavers from the Trade Sea coasts. Yet now they had turned inward, to the heart of civilization. Every sword-stroke that fell here wounded a man who had done nothing but believe in the right of his people to govern their own destiny.

The dwarf felt strangely. After so many years in Meirenia, he was finally beginning to adopt its ways of thought, it's customs. It was almost like clan-home to him now. He watched, feeling a deep dark pain in his heart, as the two armies moved deeper into the city. Behind him the Archlector was issuing terse orders to the handful of Throne Knights left to him. The council chambers could be an admirable defense. The dwarf had survived the battle of Hraedborg what seemed like lifetimes ago. This was not as stout a fortress as the great gates of that folk-hall, but it would do.

At the twelfth bell, what should have been the busiest hour of the day for the markets, the temple of Fortune Victorious atop the Holy Hill was kissed with fire. So much for their oaths not to harm the smallfolk, the dwarf thought sourly. The Order Knights were all very big on contracts and honor and loyalty, but when it came down to it they pillaged just like any other invader. Thick black smoke curled from the burning temple. He fancied he could hear the screams of the priests carried on the winds all the way to the harbor.

The Thrones were clamoring. The armies were almost here. They had joined along the Road of the Coin and were passing down that artery like a poison. Soon they would reach the heart of Dolnon, of Meirenia–the council house. Archlector Hadyn sat in his chair, silent now and morose. The Archlector was an old old man, the hair long since gone to wisps on his head, his eyes shrunken to little beads of glimmering cunning, and his mouth sour and thin-lipped. The dwarf knew Hadyn had once been the adored leader of the council in his youth, but age had robbed him of his beauty. It had not robbed him of his charisma. The old man clutched the hand-rests of his chair and rose, looking around at the other Thrones sitting or standing in the gallery, fear written on their faces.

This was the place of the Council, once, the dwarf recalled. The Thrones had each sat in their great wooden chairs and debated the future course of the Free Republic. It had been so for hundreds of years. But the Emperor could not abide this republic on his doorstep. Particularly not after what they had done. In a foolhardy move, the Thrones had agreed to send a detachment of knights to the aid of the beleagured kingdom of Byrnia; they had performed too well, and folded the Emperor's ranks on what was meant to be a day of glory. They had embarassed the newly crowned Imperator at the hour of his triumph.

Meirenia stood in the way. It was on land that once, centuries ago, had been ruled from Miles. The Emperor willed it would be so again. He had tradition on his side, the tradition of the First Men to come up from the south. The dwarf respected tradition, and the legacy of the First Men. But this world had changed in the millenia since the First and Second Empires had ruled. Meirenia was a free land now, governed by the sad men left in this room. Nobles and merchants, they had been at each others throats since time out of mind, but now they were not squabbling nobles and merchants: they were Meirenians, and more, they were the last Thrones.

Archlector Hadyn watched the chief knight of the council guard, the last of the commanders left alive and uncaptured, step forward. "Syrs, we must open the water door and make for the harbor. Meirenia will live on, in you. You will return with an army. We will take back what is ours."

The Archlector snorted. "And where will we flee? Kjellos? I hear the new Emperor has found himself a Kjellian bride. No, Arthar. We will not open the water door. We will stay."

Syr Artar Dorel stared at the Lector, his mouth set grimly. "We must go. It is for the good of the people."

Again, Hadyn scoffed. "The doors are barred. It will take the Order a few minutes at least to break into this hall. So, before we are robbed of our lives, let us sell them dearly." With that, the Archlector scooped up a torch from the wall and dipped it into the ever-burning brazier kept at the center of the chamber. Artar Dorel moved as if to stop him.

"I have sworn to protect you," Dorel hissed, angry now.

"Then you have failed," the Lector said with an angry, cruel, smile. "As we swore to protect Meirenia, and failed. The price of our failure is our lives." The Lector set the burning brand to one of the tapestries hanging from the wall. The other Thrones looked nervous, anxious. They knew what has happening. "Let them come now. Unbar the door."

The fire spread. When the grey-clad knights entered the room, it was ablaze. Jacques Sarjent, grandmaster of the order, rushed forward. Real concern sounded in his voice. "Hadyn, what are you doing?" he cried.

The Archlector, lit from below like a specter, pointed a crooked finger at Sarjent. "I name you lapdog, and fool!" he said in a voice that had once orated to crowds of adoring citizenes. "Look upon your work, Sarjent! Look what you have done for your Emperor! Is this the just cause Haelor bids you to fight?" He paused for effect and Sarjent just stared. "Grandmaster of the Order of the Sword Militant indeed! I tell you now, Sarjent, the hells will swallow you with open arms! May you go into the darkness of your last days knowing that you crushed the Free Republic, a people who had done nothing to you or your lord, a people –"

As he spoke, there was a sharp cracking sound from above and a cascade of embers rained into the chamber. "My curse be upon you, Jacques Sarjent! Fortune's wheel raised you up, and Fortune's wheel will grind you back down into the dust!" As the Archlector raised his arms, the dwarf thought: Farewell, my friend.

The great rockwood beams of the hall groaned. Then, they fell.