He raised the telescope to the battlements over the gate. The sun glanced off the helmets of the militiamen. And then he spotted a tall black hat. It was easy to guess the sinister presence under it, waiting like a bird of prey. The motivation Yonnis had felt on seeing the end of the journey melted away. The end of the journey also meant a reckoning, and the man under that hat would influence what it was. Nevertheless, Yonnis waved the men forward. Dust, smell, and the clip-clop of many trotting horses were announcing their arrival.
Initially, the people waiting were solid in their lines as they strained to see what was coming along the cobbled road. Soon, the left line surged with energy and some men chanted, “Whoa! General Yonnis!” They abandoned their places and rushed towards the riders at the front of the procession.
Yonnis stopped his horse and was soon surrounded. He leaned down from his saddle and shook hands. Some folk were just happy to touch his boot, or his horse.
He heard a woman shouting, “Thank you for what you did for my hospital! May the Spirit bless you, M’Lord General!”
Yonnis looked up and spotted her, noticing a mark on her face—a scar, perhaps. She seemed familiar. He waved to her over the heads of the raucous men thronging round him, and then gave a two-handed general wave to the lines.
The cheering seemed to get louder and louder. The crowds greeted all the men with enthusiasm, but their desire to get near to Yonnis was overwhelming. He could not help pride surging. He felt so energized by it, as if he were floating above them, bathing them in the light of his success. These people loved him—he had reached into them and inspired them. Why was the joy of having done something so monumental starting to curdle in his stomach? He wanted someone or something to blame for that awful feeling. But the Doctrine of Truth urged him to look within.
Two militiamen marched up to Yonnis, apparently intent on doing their duty without fear or favor. Of course they would. Spymaster Tallier, who relished his nickname “All-Ears”, was listening.
“’Oo are ya?” they barked.
“General Yonnis Krusa,” Yonnis replied, modestly presenting a wooden token to prove it, to the amusement of the crowd around him.
An army sergeant shouted at the militia. “Open the gate for your victorious general, brethren! The King is dead. Long live the Republic of Kimalloa!”
The crowd started to roar its approval and Yonnis was seized by a desire to keep them roaring, loud enough to make a lasting impression on All-Ears, who was still gazing down from the battlements. Yonnis reached behind him to the panniers on his horse’s back and snatched out a large steel helmet circled with a gold coronet which looked like it had been kicked around a slaughterhouse. He held it high. The crowd gasped in awe. One woman fainted. After a few moments, the eerie quiet was smashed by a throaty cheer from one soldier, and others soon chimed in. The despised tyrant was dead, and they were privileged to see the evidence.
