Simon Blackfyre and the Enemy Within

by A J Callen

  His father constricted his eyes. “Where did you hear that name?”

  “I overheard the guards talking. There are many rumors about what happened in the presence of the Holy Seer that night in the Council chambers.”

  “I will speak to Dowrick about it,” his father said.

  His father unfastened the belt and scabbard and lay them on the table. “A man born mortal must die the same. If he can be felled by a blade then I do not fear him as long as I feel the cold weight of steel in my hand.” He placed his strong sword hand on Callor’s shoulder and squeezed. “The King himself would be wise to heed my words.”

  Callor turned on his heel and swung the sword, slicing the top off a tall candle sitting in a holder on the table. “Magnificent. I will be certain that Koldrin, or whoever he is, suffers the caress of our family’s steel.”

  “Then I pray you be done with it quickly, for we have more important matters pressing upon us than peasant sorcery and fools’ magic.” His father frowned, his expression taut and derisive. “And that curious hawk that keeps circling outside, does it belong to someone?”

  “Esther? She belongs to Mister Byrch. Why?”

  His father rubbed his silver-streaked goatee. “When they first took Delcarden ashore, he apparently blathered on about some magical bird on Kardi or some such nonsense, constantly confusing fowl with female, amongst other mad ramblings. Such are the deliriums of a slow and labored death, we must assume.”

  Callor looked out of the window, spotting Esther flying over the eastern wall toward the Roamligor Forest. “I didn’t like her at first but I’ve grown quite fond of her presence and even more so, the absence of plague-infested rats.”

  “Very well then,” said Callor’s father as he slid the bolt across the door. “Remember, all allied to our cause will maintain appearances until called upon to reveal their true allegiance. Now, let us laugh and join the others for a hearty meal. I cannot stay long but must return to Avidene to finalize our plans. Lord Dowrick will keep you informed upon Delcarden’s death.”

  “Very good, Father. I will await your instructions and none shall ever be the wiser.”

  “Well, none… save us. Rumors of impending slave rebellions are spreading faster than all this superstitious nonsense of avenging demons. Both are fortunes of fate and only a coward unfit to rule would squander the opportunity they offer to secure the Tiberion crown and dynasty forevermore.”

  Lord Coranthium opened the door and gestured for Callor to step through. He obeyed and passed by the two guards stationed outside.

  “And Callor?”

  Callor stopped and turned to address his father. “Yes, sir?”

  “When next that hawk returns I want you to string a fresh bow and bring it down. Do you understand?

  “But Father I can’t—”

  “Do not make me repeat myself.” He narrowed his eyes at his son.

  Callor lowered his head. “Yes, my Lord. I understand.”

  “Good. There are already far too many predators about.” His father slammed the door shut at the same time as his only son’s heart closed, sealing off forever the sliver of love that had remained for the man who would make him King.

  Chapter 3

  Untested Steel

  Lord Cormac Evermere of Baerston Mor slumped forward on a high back chair, his weary eyes closed, his face rumpled as though he’d been buffeted by a night of disturbing dreams.

  “I simply cannot tell you how happy I am to see my sons again. It’s been too long, Marcus, and I am much the worse for it.”

  “You don’t have to apologize, Father. We know how busy you are.” He was thinner than when Marcus had last seen him over six months ago. At that time, he had traveled to attend a King’s Council meeting in Avidene before Marcus and his younger brothers, Jack and Niall, were summoned to Farrhaven.

  His father brushed the dust off his worn riding coat and boots. “You and your brothers have grown into such fine young men in such a short time that I scarcely recognized my own sons. Your mother will be so proud when I tell her.”

  Marcus offered his father a pewter cup of wine. He noticed how the bald patch on his father’s scalp was expanding and his remaining hair, once brown, was now turning white like tufts of fresh snow. “We’ve all changed since the night of our initiation. It’s quite miraculous and sometimes we don’t even recognize ourselves.”

  “And you are well, Marcus? No ill effects from the rites?”

  “None, Father. I have never felt stronger and more determined in my life.”

  His father raised the cup in a toast. “Of that I am glad, and your mother even more so. Lord Lionsbury has informed us of much that has happened here, though I fear there is still more that he withholds. I have always believed the Choldath were a myth and I suspect it will cause considerable alarm once the full report is given before the Council.”

  Marcus pulled up a chair. “I wish I could say it was not true but I have seen these creatures attack with my own eyes.”

  “And Jack tells me he witnessed the death of Lord Fromund yet cannot speak any more of it apart from what Lord Lionsbury has already told us.”

  “Then you know as much as I do, Father. He will not confess more to his brother who should, in time, be his lawful King.”

  “And you will be crowned when you prove yourself in these rites, though caution, not ambition, is your best course in these uncertain days.”

  His father sipped his wine and continued. “Not only have you changed, but the world outside these walls has also, and not for the better. There have been eight more reports of similar events across the Kingdom. So far, the combined royal forces have been able to destroy these Necrolis creatures but only at great cost to human life and property.”

  He downed a long gulp of wine and sighed. “If the attacks remain isolated and sporadic, then the King’s Council can repel the threat but there are others brewing that may be impossible to contain,” his father said.

  “I’ve overheard the guards talking about a growing slave unrest in the frontier towns. The King’s Council knows this, yet they do nothing to alleviate their pain and suffering. If they were set free, we would no longer have to fear our own countrymen and we would have more than enough soldiers to defeat our common enemy.”

  His father smiled in sympathy. “Spoken like the true King that you should be and God willing, you’ll ascend the throne in time to unite our people and prevent an even greater bloodshed. My only regret is that our dear friend, Lord Delcarden, will not live to see that glorious day.”

  “Is it true what Mister Joren said?”

  “It is. How he managed to survive at all when all others perished is a miracle, though even miraculous events must come to an end.”

  “Then we will honor his Lordship the day I am crowned. My first act will be to issue a royal edict to release all our people still in servitude and abolish slavery from our Kingdom forever.”

  His father looked at him with an affirmation of respect and pride as he rose from the chair. “And to do that you’ll need this first.”

  He withdrew Belessunu, the sword of their ancestor, Sibert Evermere, one of the five founding warrior patriarchs and the first King of Miradora. “I’ve always found it a little heavy for my liking. I asked the royal swordsmith at Gwendomir Palace to sharpen it as finely as possible and oil the blade. He did so, grudgingly of course, and more as a favor because I am the late King’s brother. For all that’s worth these days.”

  He presented the hilt to his son.

  “He says it’s as straight and tempered pure as the day it was forged.”

  Marcus took the sword in his hand. He’d held Bella’s dull, unpolished blade several times before as a boy and could barely lift it. Now, it felt solid, yet unencumbered by its heaviness, like an extension of his arm. He turned and thrust into the air, advancing forward and adjusting his balance to compensate for the weight.

  “This is a magnificent blade. I’m grateful to you, Father.
”

  His father poured two more cups of wine. “My pleasure, son. It has found its purpose in your hand rather than rusting over the hearth at Baerston Mor. I pray it serves you well in the difficult times ahead.”

  Marcus lay the sword down on the table and joined his father in a drink. “Lord Lionsbury says these are unlike other swords and that a single man can dispatch a demon if he follows the discipline of Soru Kentay.” He looked down at his hands, clenching and unclenching them in hard fists.

  “The Holy Seer says the blood of the Asmadu Vohra flows through our veins.”

  “So it is said. Is that what you and your brothers were trying to spill when you decided to knock heads with the Tiberions?”

  Marcus coughed up some of his wine. “Oh, that, well. I was going to explain that. You see—”

  His father held up his hand and laughed. “No need. I have no doubt that arrogant Tiberion toad deserved it. There were many times I wanted to thrash his father, Ronas, but noble decorum and your mother’s wise words always prevented me from making fools of myself and our family in such a manner.”

  “I promise that it will never happen again. There is too much at risk for us to fight like jealous children.”

  “Good, and are you pleased with the protectors chosen for the contenders by the Holy Seer?”

  “For the most part, they’re all able and worthy people from every part of the Kingdom.” Marcus finished his wine. “But Simon Blackfyre is a mystery to me.”

  “How so?”

  “Did Lord Lionsbury tell you that he and Jack were with Mister Byrch in the search party that came upon the murdered slave in the forest?”

  His father stared into his cup. “He did. May God have mercy on that poor young man’s soul.”

  “Jack, Simon, and Rachel will speak nothing more of what they saw that night nor about their time in the Holy Seer’s chambers.”

  “The night Lord Fromund died?”

  Marcus nodded. “I cannot speak for Simon or Rachel but I know my brother. The horror of it shadows him still.”

  “The visiting nobles will be advised in private before we leave, though considering your misgivings, I wonder if it will be the full truth of it. With the imminent death of Lord Delcarden, the last thing we need in Avidene is another rumor stoking the fires of blind, unreasoning fear that already burn.” His father leaned forward in the chair. “Anything else you can tell me, Marcus, before I receive the official account?”

  Marcus shook his head. “I wish there was. All we know is that the next morning Lord Dowrick addressed the assembly and told us his Lordship was dead by the unholy hand of the Choldath, his remains being cremated in the forge on the orders of the Holy Seer. Not even his ashes were allowed to be collected for a proper burial by his family. Something about preventing the spread of a possible plague or similar deadly affliction.”

  His father leaned back in the chair. “You trust Jack so why are you troubled by Simon? It is not uncommon for men to remain silent after witnessing such terrible events on the battlefield. What good would it serve for Simon to speak of them?”

  Marcus stood over Belessunu admiring the shimmer of its polished steel. “I’m… I’m not sure. It’s more than that. It’s something I can’t explain in words except to say that it’s a troubling, uncanny feeling when I’m near him now. I know it’s not a reasonable thing to say for he has so far proved himself a loyal ally and would have everything in the world to gain when I’m crowned King.”

  “All in his unfortunate situation would, Marcus. None of the other young lords have the heart or courage to change the destiny of our people in such a profound way. The King’s Council in Avidene knows that and so do the most vulnerable like this young man, Simon.

  “Together, our people can destroy the Choldath for good but if Miradora burns with bloody insurrection, we will only aid our common enemy in hastening our own destruction.” He finished his wine. “I’ve heard nothing but good reports on Simon’s character and he has shown no sign of attempting to flee his sworn responsibilities. You should count yourself fortunate that he was chosen to help you assume your rightful throne.”

  An unexpected surge of anger flowed through Marcus. He hadn’t explained his misgivings clearly; how could he? Simon wasn’t the only one he felt uncomfortable around. There were also Rachel and his own brother, Jack, in whose presence he’d never felt guarded before—but all that changed when they returned from the Corridor of Shadows.

  “Of course, Father. You’re right. Forgive my foolishness. I will remain ever vigilant of mind and spirit and trust in those whom the Holy Seer has sent to help me prevail in these sacred rites.”

  His father patted Marcus on the back. “That’s the spirit, son. Now, how about we go downstairs and join your brothers at the table? I haven’t eaten since morning and fear I may have a demon in my belly growling to be fed.”

  Marcus laughed with his father and for a few minutes, all was well in the world that they loved. Yet with each descending step toward the boisterous voices rising from the Great Hall below, the creeping unease at the bottom of Marcus’s heart grew stronger.

  Chapter 4

  Thy Family First

  Lord Barabas Velizar of Tel-Sharduk dropped the half-chewed mutton leg on his plate and raised his glass to the Tiberions’ private table on the far side of the Great Hall.

  Goran bristled when Callor’s father, Lord Coranthium, nodded in his direction. “The Tiberion preener is my rival. Why do you have to acknowledge him in that manner?”

  His father finished his wine and the buxom serving girl filled his glass again. “That may be, but Ronas Tiberion is no rival of mine. In any event, we should consider with whom to ally ourselves when all is said and done with these blasted rites.” He belched and wiped his greasy mouth with the stained sleeve of his tunic.

  Goran looked away. He and Dominique were embarrassed and angry to see their fat, sallow-faced father, a once noble and proud field commander, turned into little more than a sloven drunk and whoremonger since the death of their mother. Only his father’s long black and silver beard remained as a reminder of his honorable past. The other senior lords were all attired as befitting their titles, yet his own father had arrived looking like a disheveled deserter on the run from the Royal Guard.

  Goran observed the other family protectors drinking and making merry as they eagerly devoured the exceptionally succulent and savory roast boar that Callor had killed, reportedly, with his bare hands; Goran rather doubted he had accomplished the feat without help. Trays of cheeses, bread, cold meats, and fruits were passed around almost as much as the bottles of wine.

  At that moment, Goran regretted that he simply could not leave his table and join another, something he had never considered before seeing his father that night. Goran sipped his wine. “Why do you caution me about alliances at such a time? Any of us, even Robert, may be crowned before the first snow falls.”

  His father’s paunch hung over his belt and shifted like a loose sack of flour when he turned. “True, my son, yet it is a prudent strategy to make allowances for any possibility. Remember, Goran, should the Holy Seer not favor our family, that doesn’t mean you won’t be chosen to serve as the next Garrison Commander of Farrhaven. Lionsbury’s days are numbered in the eyes of many on the Council considering the tragic stain of his family history and the strange and terrible events of late.”

  Goran looked up at Lord Lionsbury, Lady Bellemar, and the other Council members enjoying themselves at the high table on the dais. “And you have this on whose good authority?”

  “There are many in Avidene seeking to change the old guard, to set our faltering Kingdom on the path to renewed glory and greatness that our people deserve.”

  “You speak as though you have already seen the future. Do you not have confidence in my abilities to prevail, both as your son and a proud warrior?”

  “Of course, I do and that is why I am saying this to you now. A warrior who hopes to survive the co
ming battle must have another plan of attack should the first fail. Don’t you agree, or have you learned nothing from your years of training? We don’t want to find our Velizar backs against the wall with no escape when our enemy’s swords close in.”

  “And who do you speak of? There is only one enemy of Miradora that I have seen and it threatens all; noble, freeman, and slave.”

  His father gestured with a fresh leg of mutton. “Yes, yes, these creatures are a terrible nuisance, but one that can be easily remedied even if the King is not chosen. It’s the grasping bastards and bitches in this hall that should concern you. I can negotiate favorable terms with the Tiberions and Strathwalds, although Robert’s father will require more persuasion.”

  He bit off a mouthful of meat and chewed as he spoke. “But the Evermeres? No. Cormac is not like his stolid, hard-nosed brother, our late, venerated King, and neither is his son. If Marcus is chosen, it would mean the end of our cherished way of life forever.”

  Goran watched Marcus and his younger brothers, Jack and Niall, laughing and jesting with their father at their private table. They were so at ease and unguarded with each other they seemed more like a shopkeeper’s family celebrating a son’s birthday, than a dignified noble family from which the next King might arise. “Have you spoken with Dominique about this? I visited her yesterday and the Holy Seer says she will be well enough to join us within a few days.”

  His father tossed the half-eaten mutton leg onto his plate. “Your sister gave us all a scare with her precarious and sudden malady but she is looking as radiant as ever now. She will make a grand entrance fit for a queen—which she might very well be at the conclusion of the rites.”

  Venomous jealousy churned inside Goran. How dare he elevate Dominique to the queen’s throne while dismissing him so easily from the King’s. He stabbed a piece of roast boar with his knife. “And what if I am the chosen one, Father? I have no desire to marry my sister though I have heard it not uncommon in the savage kingdoms.”