The King Trials

by D L Sims

  Somewhere in the distance he heard a lute, the sound carried from some other part of the village on the winds. It took him a moment to figure out the tune--an old song about Kurem, the god of death, winter, hunting, wisdom and so many other things Ikar couldn’t remember half of them. Kurem was the god that Althanens favored; Ikar had named his horse after him.

  Ikar Dominikov was the son of a Lord. He had learned how to hunt like all the Althanen kids, how to skin animals, how to dry those skins out to make blankets and cloaks and whatever else they were needed for. Their cook, Vanya, had taught him how to boil the meat into stew when he was nine. But, unlike other Althanen children, Ikar was also educated in arithmetic, literature, politics and history. Skills and knowledge he didn’t need to hunt, skin or--if he were a poor man--work in the coal mines or as a logger, but they would help him if he were ever invited to compete in the King Trials, and if he ever took over the Dominikov estate.

  Ikar opened the heavy wood door to the tavern. Heat hit his body, and he lowered his shoulders and his lantern. The warmth in the tavern wasn’t created by any fire, but rather by the amount of people all pressed together inside.

  The atmosphere of the tavern, loud and overwhelming, irked Ikar, but this was where Briar had wanted to meet. Ikar had learned not to argue over such small matters; despite his size, his friend could be a stubborn mule.

  Briar’s vibrant red hair caught Ikar’s attention. He sat at a table in the back of the room, clapping along with the music. Ikar was surprised that he wasn’t singing and dancing with the rest of the bar’s patrons. That type of wild abandonment was the type of thing his friend enjoyed.

  He wove his way through bodies as someone started singing a chorus of ‘This Fair Maiden’.

  “This fair maiden with skin like pearls

  With hair like sun and plenty of curls”

  The rest of the tavern’s patrons joined in, even the barkeep sang along as he filled glasses.

  “Lips like roses, eyes like moss

  My fair maiden in the woods, lost”

  It really was a terrible song.

  Was that his tutor dancing a jig on the table?

  Gods. It is. Ikar averted his eyes, shaking his head.

  The depravity already caused a sharp pain to start behind his eyes. He squeezed between the people who were dancing and clapping, cheering his tutor on. A woman squealed as a man scooped her up and began twirling her around the room. The town butcher spotted him and clapped his shoulder with a meaty hand and a loud, slurred, “Ikar, my boy!”

  Finally, blessedly, he made it to Briar.

  “There you are!” Briar exclaimed, sipping on a mug of ale. “What took you so long?”

  “It was quite the adventure getting through that,” Ikar replied in a flat tone, pointing at what seemed like half the town dancing, laughing and singing. “Why did you want to meet here, Bri? You know I hate this place.”

  “You hate most places!”

  That was true. Ikar’s fondness did not extend to most people.

  Someone started a new song. This one slow and melancholy, about a love lost. Briar frowned at the sudden change in tempo.

  “Ale? Wine?” his friend asked, already standing up from the table and going around the bar to fill a mug of ale before Ikar answered.

  This was allowed, considering Briar worked as a...barmaid? What were they called if they were male? Ikar wondered.

  Briar appeared with two pints of ale.

  “So, tell me, Ikar, what have you done today?”

  “Well, I took lessons from the tutor.” At this Ikar looked over to see that his tutor had lost his tunic; his flabby belly and hairy chest on full display. Ikar made a face. “I shot a rabbit with an arrow. The ladies in the kitchens at home are turning it to stew. I read about Lysic. Did you know they have a school dedicated to making soldiers?”

  “Everyone knows that!” Briar sipped his ale. “And dragons!”

  “Of course all you care about is the dragons.” Ikar paused and drank his ale before continuing. “I read poetry by some dead Eltharian. It was rather boring, so I’m sure you would have enjoyed it.”

  Briar smiled at that. He enjoyed poetry, especially poetry about men finding love, but not losing it, not like the man in the song the tavern’s patrons were singing. Again.

  “I brushed Kurem.”

  “The god or the horse?”

  “Funny,” he said dryly, which made Briar shrug and smile. “And your day?”

  “You’re looking at it!” Briar waved at the debauchery happening behind them.

  Ikar nodded. “You got the town drunk.”

  Briar’s brows knit together. “The town got itself drunk!”

  Ikar shrugged, but didn’t smile.

  The door to the tavern opened again, and a small statured, but stocky man entered. The man’s brown hair swept around his head as if he had stepped out of a tornado. His face grim and his eyes bloodshot as if he had already had more than enough to drink.

  “Wylon,” the barkeep raised his voice to be heard over the loud singing. “Why do you look so glum?”

  Wylon sank against the door after struggling to close it against the wind. The room fell silent, each entranced by the gloomy man who had interrupted their fun. “The King…” the man’s voice rose an octave above a whisper, but Ikar heard him clearly. “The King is dead.”

  A collective gasp sounded throughout the tavern, but Ikar just shook his head. He met the news with nothing more than apathy.

  “I can’t believe it,” Briar said, his voice already thick with tears. “Our poor King.”

  Ikar scoffed. “He was old, Briar.”

  “He wasn’t that old, Ikar.”

  Ikar conceded. The King had only been forty-six. “He was sick.”

  The patrons consoled each other, crying onto their neighbor’s shoulder, and sharing drinks in the king’s name. The jovial fun of only moments ago had turned into a drunken memorial.

  His tutor came forward, his flabby belly bouncing as he walked. “That’s a shame about the King,” he slurred. His ale spilled all over the floor. “The Trials will be happening soon, my boy. Keep that in mind.”

  Oh, he was. The Trials would serve as the perfect opportunity to make a name for himself. For twenty-two years he had been living in the shadow of his parent’s great heroics during the War of Wars. His brother had been the greatest wolf hunter in the north for five years in a row. He wanted a title for himself, and what better than being the first Dominikov to sit on the Elthare throne?

  “I plan on entering, Quill.”

  His tutor beamed. “That a boy! Such good news deserves a drink, especially following such tragedy.” He gulped down the rest of his ale.

  Ikar raised his glass, clinking his pint against Briar’s.

  “To the King,” Briar said in a solemn voice.

  To being king, Ikar thought with pride.

  Chapter

  Four

  Andalen woke up to the sun streaming in her face and her bed still warm from Nixema’s body.

  Once dressed, she ventured out into the manor in search of Gellen, the games master and groundskeeper. He was an elderly man that had been in the Amadons employ since his thirties.

  The chatter of the servants filled the warm halls as they completed their morning duties. Andalen said hello to a few as she walked by on her way to the front hall, where she knew Gellen would be preparing for the hunt.

  Andalen was so lost in her thoughts of the king’s death and the upcoming Trials that she almost didn’t notice her brother sitting on a bench under a window, just before the corridor that led to the kitchens. His nose was tucked in a book like always, with a quill stuck behind his ear, partially hidden by his short curly hair.

  “Morning, Ari.”

  He waved at her, distracted by whatever he was reading.

  She stepped into the main hall to find Gellen waiting with two soldiers and her father. He smiled as Andalen approached, while the sold
iers gave no expression, and her father frowned.

  “No, Andalen,” her father commanded. His white bald head glistened under the lights of the candelabra above as he fixed the lapel of his elaborate black-green coat. “You have a needlepoint lesson.”

  Andalen snorted. Needlepoint was such a tedious task, and she often pictured jabbing her needles into the thigh of her unbearable instructor, a haughty creature with breath that stank of rotting fish.

  Andalen came to a stop in front of him, looking up until her brown eyes met his. “Please, Father. I promise to double my time at needlepoint tomorrow.” She laid on the charm; her father was a stern man, but he rarely refused Andalen.

  Lord Amadon’s face didn’t soften, but he conceded. “Fine, but you will wear a dress for the entire day tomorrow as well as triple your time at needlepoint. I do not want to see any trousers or tunics.”

  Andalen readily agreed; a dress was worth a day’s trip into the Eltharian Forest.

  “Come,” Gellen said, ushering the party forward and out of the castle.

  Outside, a cart and horses had been prepared for the hunt. Andalen went to the black steed in the back. Her horse, Nomir, greeted her with a soft nuzzle to her hand; her sword and scabbard had been attached to his saddle. She pulled the blade from the sheath and admired it.

  The sword had been a gift from Gellen for her twenty-second birthday. The handle was simple, made of black stone melted together with the steel. The blade itself was thin, sharp and sleek. It was nothing like the expensive and beautiful Opal Stone weapons the soldiers in their noble guard and her father carried, but she treasured it just the same.

  Andalen felt Gellen come up to her side. She placed the sword back into its sheath before turning toward the wizened man. His hair was white and thinning in more places than not, and when he smiled, it was apparent that he was missing a majority of his teeth; the ones that remained were rotted and brown.

  “How many ducks?” he asked.

  Andalen smiled at the old game. Ever since she was a little girl, Gellen would ask her how many ducks she thought they would bring back from the hunt. If she guessed correctly, he would give her his dessert at dinner that night, but if she was wrong, she would have to give him hers.

  “Ten.”

  Gellen let out a small laugh. “Ten? You must have high faith in us, my lady. Last time we only caught five.”

  “Last time you didn’t have me.”

  Gellen laughed again. “You have always been so modest, my dear.”

  Andalen laughed along with him.

  Her father came near, wiping the smiles from their faces. “We need to go. I would like to return before the sun sets.”

  “Yes, My Lord,” Gellen said, bowing low.

  He departed and took his spot on the bench of the cart. The cart held weapons and rope to tie the ducks together, and large spears in case the hunting party came across a boar. Andalen took her place on the back of Nomir, and her father climbed on his steed while the two soldiers on their horses took their place on either side of the Amadons.

  They set off down the road that led to the Roaming River and the forest.

  “Did you see your brother this morning?” her father asked.

  “Aye.”

  “He did not want to join the hunt?”

  “Does he ever?”

  Her father fell silent, but she could feel him seething.

  It was an ongoing battle between her father and brother to get the other to understand their position. Their father wanted a ‘proper’ Lord to take over the family title, but all Arlen wanted to do was go to university and paint. With Arlen’s eyes going, he had been more adamant about fulfilling his dreams. Lord Amadon wanted him to pretend to be as healthy as every other Lord in Elthare. In those moments Andalen was happy that her father ignored her daily activities. As long as Andalen married a prince or a noble born from one of the other villages or neighboring kingdoms, Halon cared very little about what his daughter did with her time. It was her mother who harped about her acting like a proper lady.

  The road outside the village was empty but shaded by the branches of the trees that lined it on either side. They rode in silence with Gellen quietly singing a song about a maiden in a tavern.

  They traveled for a little over two hours until they came to a bank on the Roaming River, a large body of water that bisected Elthare from Alithane to Oszerack until it opened up into the Azuken Sea. Several ducks lazed on the river’s banks nearly a couple hundred meters down.

  “Come, Lady Andalen, let’s see your skill,” one of the soldiers teased.

  Andalen scoffed, but had to forgive the man his ignorance. He was new to the estate guard and had never been on a hunt Andalen attended. With a false sweet smile, she slid from the back of her horse, picked a bow and quiver from the cart Gellen drove, and nocked an arrow.

  “We’re too far away,” the soldier protested. “You’ll never hit it.”

  She ignored him and aimed for a lone duck that was getting ready to take flight from the bank of the river.

  She breathed in and then let the arrow fly. It pierced the duck straight through the body.

  The soldier whistled through his teeth. “I’ve heard stories…”

  Gellen’s large hand came down on Andalen’s shoulder with pride. She shot the soldier a smug look. “You might want to watch your tongue, soldier. Our lady here could hit a fly at fifty feet.”

  Andalen smiled at Gellen’s praise and then went to retrieve her kill. Behind her, the soldiers and Gellen were still discussing her skill. Her father remained silent.

  Surrounded by brambles and winter flowers, the Dominikov estate was made of black stone and wood--a dark silhouette in the northern tip of Elthare. There were four servants and a cook, and the halls were always cold, even when a fire roared in the crate of every room.

  Lord Dominikov sat at the head of the table in the dining room. He was not a good looking man; there had been times where he had been compared to a troll. He was bald with many scars on his face and torso, and an eyepatch covered the gaping hole where his left eye should have been. Lady Dominikov was no less battle-worn than her husband. She had hair the color and texture of straw and a scar that pulled the corner of her mouth into a scowl. Despite their wealth, Lady Dominikov wore the plain dress of a common Althanen woman: a thick, black material lined with the fur of a fox.

  Ikar sat in stony silence, poking at his rabbit stew and tearing his dark millet bread to pieces. His brother sat across from him, covered in scratches. The bite on his left shoulder had been bandaged, but blood still seeped through the white fabric. Yvney smiled.

  “You’re not still mad at me, are you, brother?”

  Ikar huffed as he wiped at the scratch on his forearm that began to bleed again. “That was my wolf, Yvney. You took my kill.”

  “I saved you from being eaten.” Yvney smiled again.

  Ikar grumbled. In three days, he would turn twenty-two. He had to kill a wolf by the time the clock struck midnight on his name day. It was an old Althanen tradition, and if he failed to complete the task, he would be branded a failure, both literally and figuratively. Even now, he could smell the flesh of Briar’s Branding from a year before. Ikar had yet to kill a wolf, and all because his fucking brother kept stealing his kills.

  “Yvney, stop bullying your brother,” their mother commanded in her heavy Lysin accent.

  It had been their mother who had trained them in the ways of battle. She had taught her sons how to hold a sword and shoot an arrow while their father had been off at war, aiding their allies, the Lysins, against the Soldarens. And then, she too had been called to war, leaving Ikar to endure his brother’s torment alone.

  Their mother’s voice sounded as chilly as Althanen winds and as sharp as an Opal Stone blade when she continued speaking, “Leave Ikar alone, Yvney, or you be sleeping in stables.”

  Yvney made a crude gesture in Ikar’s direction. Lady Dominikov cursed in Lysinic, rose from the tab
le, and left the dining room.

  “One of these days, brother,” Yvney hissed across the table in a low tone, “you are going to learn how to stop suckling at our mother’s teat and stand up for yourself.”

  Their father, nearly deaf and blind, continued to eat, oblivious to Yvney’s words.

  Ikar felt a fiery rage start somewhere deep in his belly. He clamped his hands around the edge of the table as it consumed him. He ground his teeth together as a surge of power rolled through him, deep, dark, and alluring as it prickled under his skin. His breath came out hot and shallow as he tried with everything within him to not attack Yvney with the sharp blade of his dinner knife.

  His brother smiled.

  “Still haven’t learned how to control your powers, brother?” Yvney’s black hair turned red, strong features softening to match Briar’s. “It’s fairly easy, brother,” he continued in Briar’s voice. It sent chills down Ikar’s spine to see his friend wearing his brother’s cold smirk. Ikar hated when Yvney used his powers to distort the people he loved as a way to torment him. “But you are too weak, too childish to learn how to control your power.” The mask slipped, and Yvney was himself again.

  Still, power flowed through Ikar, but nothing happened. He didn’t change, and the power died in his veins as quickly as it had came.

  “Defective little shit,” his brother spat before rising from the table and disappearing through one of the many closed doors just off the dining hall.

  Lord Dominikov looked up from his dinner to the two empty chairs. “Is dinner over?” he asked, peering at Ikar with his one good eye.

  Ikar stared blankly at his father and then burst into laughter at the absurd timing of his father’s words. He stood and walked out of the dining room, and out of the manor, leaving his father at the table by himself.

  The night air slapped against his skin, stinging against his fair cheeks. He had grabbed the wrong cloak, this one was too thin for the night and not lined with fur, but at least his boots were keeping his feet warm.