93. Forming a Real Kingdom

Crowds gathered despite the freezing winds whipping up around them. Half stood groggily on uneasy footing, battered from two long nights of celebrations.

Mark’s elite soldiers stood in a line of shields with their spears pointed toward the sky, separating the crowd from a makeshift podium that had been erected, pretending not to be in equally poor shape as the spectators.

Yelinda and the leaders of the strongest western clans were the first to step atop the stage, making a line at the rear of it. Their purpose was straightforward and symbolic. Just standing there was a reminder of the influence and power Mark had already gathered around him. 

Thousands gathered to watch the speech. Mark had offered some light bribes in the form of food and drink after the speech, but it hardly mattered. This was a moment everyone had been waiting for. 

Suspense over the political situation within the Frontier lingered heavily following the battle. As much as people wanted to forget their problems and bask in celebrations, they knew this day was coming, and anxious excitement had reached a fever pitch.

Cheers erupted across the crowd as Mark strode to the platform, flanked by his knights. Callum himself had gained a name for himself, swooping down on their enemy and taking shots from the throne ship during the battle. 

The other three had captured less attention, but Radic had fought in the thick of the battle and had earned a reputation as a talented warrior, though perhaps a little rough around the edges.

Erin was also seen as an accomplished archer captain. Although this didn’t earn her as much fame within the camp as the others, it didn’t go without respect.

Mark was still waiting for reports back from his scouts regarding the absent trolls and their mutant underlings, but they had been seen taking chase of the wargs. He had wanted to wait until all his loyal warriors were in attendance for his speech, but it couldn’t be held back any longer. Doing so would allow Dothran too much opportunity to plan.

Mark maintained his vigilance as he walked to the stage. He wasn’t sure exactly what Dothran would attempt, but he doubted he would go quietly. However, there was no easy move for him to make. They were under a truce, and betraying that truce would forever stain his image as untrustworthy, even if he did end up the victor.

Would that matter if he became the undisputed king? Mark wasn’t sure. But he knew it would add an additional challenge to uniting and ruling this land. Many of the clan lords were already distrusting of bowing to a king. They had long enjoyed their personal sovereignty, and while they would continue to enjoy feudal autonomy, they would be expected to bow and pay tribute. That would be a hard sell if they lacked trust in whoever took the crown.

Climbing onto the stage, Mark scanned the crowd of many eyes. They were all fastened to him.

“It is an honor so many of you have come to hear me speak today,” Mark boomed across the crowd, eliciting a roaring response.

“As you–”

“Pretender King!” Dothran shouted, parting the crowd as he marched toward the podium. “This worm has declared himself king with naught but a tiny little fort under his command. Even worse, half the people who call him king are Imperials. Can you believe such a man dares attempt to make himself our king? Your king?”

There were a handful of cheers throughout the crowd, but most remained silent at Dothran’s words.

“Now I hear rumors of the Vanquisher?  What nonsense is this? What is this mockery of our beliefs and traditions? No doubt his own yarn weavers have created these stories to trick the good people here into following him. Shame.”

A few more cheered at that, but still, most of the audience remained silent.

“However, there is an easy way of proving this man a liar!” Dothran roared. “If he is truly the Vanquisher, then he should have no problem dueling me in armed combat. Sword against axe,” Dothran glared at Mark with a smirk beneath his thick-browed expression.

Mark swallowed. He had considered this a possibility. It was the one play the man had left. It had kept him up at night. He could, of course, take the opportunity to simply blast Dothran with a bolt of lightning and leave it at that. It would win him a crown and was a far better option than just having the man killed. However, it would crush his claim of being the Vanquisher. 

The Vanquisher was an unrivaled warrior in the stories. If challenged to fight iron against iron, he would, without hesitation, easily crush his enemy. Cheating by using lightning would not be lost on the crowd. And even if it resulted in Mark’s victory, it could spawn years of revolution as the clans saw him as an unlawful king.

“So be it,” Mark shouted. “We shall duel.”

Keep calm and think. This isn’t over yet. 

Mark told himself that there was a way to beat this man, but it was hard to believe. Atlas had left him a hardened and powerful body, but he ultimately had no idea what he was doing with a sword, and Dothran was a mighty warrior who had proven himself on many occasions.

“My King,” Yelinda grabbed Mark’s arm as he descended from the podium. “Are you sure about this?”

“Do I have a choice?” Mark shrugged.

There was worry in her eyes, but she knew he was correct. Victory against the wargs would be hollow if it resulted in a fractured land of warring clans. They had taken many losses and would be in an even weaker state to face the Imperium if they warred against one another.

“You can’t die,” Yelinda said. “That man won’t be able to unite this land. Any chance at freedom we might have will be lost,” she said, holding Mark’s gaze.

He got the feeling that there was more than just politics in her stare; he ignored it and nodded. There was far too much to worry about to let his mind wander. 

“I know. I didn’t come all this way and fight all these battles just to let it fall apart because of this stubborn bastard. Whatever happens out there, I don’t plan on dying.”

“Good,” Yelinda nodded and released her grip on his arm. “Don’t make me lead my people back to our lands. Our people deserve to write their own future.”

“Agreed,” Mark said as he continued walking.

He wasn’t precisely sure when exactly he had gone all in on the cause of freeing the Frontier from the Imperium’s yoke, but he felt entirely committed to it now.

The crowd fell back, forming a circle at its center. Around the circle, the barbarians held round shields, enclosing the ring. They parted only for Mark and Dothran, quickly closing the circle of shields behind them as they stepped in. The message was clear. None would leave while both took breaths.

Mark had never gotten around to measuring himself since arriving in this world, but if forced to guess, he’d say he was between six-two and six-three with an athletic build and broad shoulders. An intimidating figure to most. But Dothran? He stood at least a half foot taller, and if Mark was built like an athlete, then Dothran was built like a bodybuilder.

“Ready to meet your end, little man?” Dothran said, circling to the side with his huge, two-handed axe in hand.

Hardened gazes looked on from the sidelines. They might have mostly been rooting for Mark before the fight, but now they seemed to reserve their applause for whoever was the victor.

“Just another body on my way to the throne,” Mark huffed.

There was no grand plan behind his words; he had just been speaking his mind, but it clearly irritated Dothran, who roared and charged forward.

Even to Mark, as untrained as he was, the huge axe coming at a predictable overhead arc from several feet away was easy enough to block, and he raised his sword above his head, reinforcing it by placing the flat of the blade against his left.

No amount of preparation would have made Mark ready for what he experienced. The axe landed hard, burring his boots a good inch into the already compacted snow and sending bone-shattering tremors through his arms and reverberating across his body.

Dothran smirked as he watched the grimace crease Mark’s brow, and he withdrew the huge weapon effortlessly with a push, sending Mark staggering backward as he readied a follow-up strike.

Mark knew that blocking these attacks was not an option. The huge man before him would no doubt wear him down well before he exhausted himself.

Kicking off against the ground, Mark sent himself hurling backward and out of range as the second strike came whizzing down, but his eyes widened as he realized he wasn’t completely free of the strike. The blade’s tip skipped his coat, drawing a thin line of blood as it opened a shallow gash across his chest.

“Baha, Vanquisher, my ass,” Dothran growled and pressed his advantage.

There was no time left to consider fairness. Relying on his sword alone, he was about to get himself killed; however, Mark wasn’t about to throw peace away just yet.

This had better work.

Drawing on his god’s lightning energy, Mark flooded his body with power. To the naked eye, he just looked like himself, but those with their own blessings no doubt saw Mark for what he was: filled with power.

His muscles reacted instantly, as his body was powered machinery, and he shot free from the strike, easily dodging it.

Dothran’s face snarled. He was not expecting Mark’s sudden speed increase, and it clearly annoyed him, sending him into a berserker rage, swinging the massive weapon wildly as he charged forward.

Few men would have survived the onslaught, regardless of their skill. The strikes were so heavy and powerful that few would have even been able to block, but Mark’s speed was now inhuman, and he was always at least a couple of inches out of range by the time Dothran’s axe reached him.

He could see the large man tiring as he swung the heavy weapon around, but the battle came at no small cost to Mark as he drained through his godly energy.

He wasn’t entirely sure who would tire first but knew that finding out wasn’t a wise bet. 

Sending a fresh wave of energy cascading through his body, Mark dodged another strike and shot forward, sending a trickle of the power through his sword and brightening it with a rainbow of color as he stabbed forward.

Cutting through flesh, the color that lit up Mark’s blade was sent rushing into Dothran’s rippled body, the shock jerking his hand and sending his axe flying away.

Undeterred, Mark pushed on with a grunt, forcing his blade deeper into the man as she convulsed against fresh ribbons of electricity pulsing through his body.

Large hands tried to take hold of Mark, but even Dothran couldn’t fight against the power of the lightning god, and his strength was fading far too quickly to turn the fight around.

With a labored grunt, Mark stepped back and kicked that man’s body free from his blade, sending Dothran’s bloodied form rolling through the snow.

Gasping for air, the barbarian king raised a hand for the weak light of the sun, capturing the beauty of his frozen land one last time as darkness took him.

Watching on in a mix of shock and awe, Mark stood silently, watching the man die, his surroundings defeated.

Cheers erupted across the crowd and closed in on Mark as he remained still, wrapping their arms around him and lifting him up atop them to crowd surf.

Justled by the crowd, comprehension slowly took hold of Mark’s thoughts.

He had done it. He had won his crown.

The result would be unquestionable once a slither of normality returned to this land. Mark would be the king of the entire Frontier, and the clans would look to him for guidance.

With any luck, he had done it in time to put things together well enough to resist the Imperium once they were done dealing with their own problems.

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