Death of a King

by Robert Evert

  “By the gods, Allyn!” Magnus gaped. He must have been holding thirty silver pieces.

  “Now, I don’t know where you came by those,” the carver said, returning to his work. “And I don’t want to know; however, it’d be wise of you to hide those away so nobody sees you have them. You’re liable to be robbed, or worse.”

  “I won’t get robbed.” Allyn hitched a thumb at Magnus and Syntharin standing behind him. “That’s why I brought them.”

  The carver surveyed Magnus. “I suppose it’s always wise to have somebody who can run for help.”

  “What the hell does that mean?” Magnus asked. “I can fight.”

  Allyn clenched his fists. “I want that lute! I’ve been saving for five years for it! Five stinking years!”

  “Shoving those coins under my nose a second time isn’t going to make it appear out of thin air, now will it?” The carver regarded the pile of coins in Allyn’s hands again. “Like I said, you best put those away and save them for when you’re old or get married.”

  “Damn it! Five years! Five stinking, lousy, cruddy years of scrimping and saving!”

  “Maybe you could buy something else?” Syntharin suggested, looking around. “There’re a lot of excellent instruments here.”

  The carver bowed. “Thank you, young man.”

  “Maybe you should save it, like he said,” Magnus urged. “Allyn, that’s a lot of money!”

  The carver set aside the piece of wood he had been carving and stood. An avalanche of chips and curls fell to the already covered floor. “Now, if you are insisting on spending your earnings”—he led them to the front of the shop—“perhaps you’d be interested in this piece.”

  He took a cream-colored lute with a black bridge from a peg, but Allyn shook his head.

  “No. Not maple. What I have now is better than maple.”

  “Maybe it is,” the carver said. “Maybe it isn’t.”

  “Allyn.” Magnus nudged Allyn’s arm. “Put those coins away and let’s get the hell out of here!”

  Allyn ignored him. “I wanted that rosewood! It was—” He struggled with his emotions. “It was beyond magnificent. It was something Balen the Bard would have played.”

  “Thank you.” The carver led them to a row of shelves. “If rosewood is what you’re after—” He selected a plain, short-necked lute. “I haven’t had time to carve her all fancy-like, but put some strings on her and she’ll sing.”

  Allyn slid his hand over the smooth, red bowl, then fingered the frets.

  Magnus groaned. He knew where this was going. What was it with musicians and their instruments? Most men didn’t treat their women with such love.

  “How much?” Allyn’s voice quavered.

  “Allyn!” Magnus cried.

  That’s how he haggled? Allyn might as well have said: “Name your price!”

  “Now…” The carver scratched a scruffy chin. “I was about to say you’ve been a good customer; yet, it’s my recollection you haven’t bought naught but strings from me over the years.”

  “You repaired my lute,” Allyn said. “When the neck cracked. Remember? Maybe four years ago?”

  “Yes, that I did. I stand corrected.”

  The carver glanced at the coins Allyn was holding. Magnus walked away.

  “How about, shall we say,” the carver paused, thinking, “twenty-three silver?”

  Twenty-three silver! By the gods, that was a lot of money. Magnus could live comfortably for a year on that—if not two.

  Allyn tensed, still clutching the rosewood lute as though it were a baby about to be stolen. “Will you carve the neck like the other one? With the ivy design and everything?”

  “Aye.” Then the carver added, “If you make it an even thirty.”

  Thirty silver! Allyn worked mainly on tips and free meals. He couldn’t have possibly saved—

  “Deal!” Allyn plopped his coins on a table and began counting.

  “Allyn.” Magnus didn’t know why he was whispering. The carver was standing right next to him. “Maybe you should save some of that.”

  Allyn kept counting.

  “Do you at least have some stashed away in case of an emergency?” Magnus asked.

  Allyn handed thirty coins to the carver. He had four silver left.

  “Now,” Allyn said, out of breath. “I need to take it with me. There’s a tavern in Green Hill, The Gilded Lily—sounds like a delightful place, doesn’t it? Anyway, the owner wants me to come play for his customers!” He pulled a much-folded letter out of his pocket. “He’s paying me two silver a week! A week! Can you imagine?”

  Magnus felt a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

  “Sounds like a mighty good deal for you, no doubt,” the carver said, putting the coins in a lockbox. “You bring her back whenever you like. I’ll be needing three weeks to do the carving. It also needs to be stained, so don’t go getting her wet, you understand.”

  “He spent thirty silver on a lute,” Magnus grumbled to Syntharin.

  “I’m surprised he makes that much,” Syntharin said. “Maybe I should become a musician.”

  Allyn and the carver shook hands.

  “You didn’t spend all of your money on that thing, did you?” Magnus asked as he and Syntharin followed Allyn out of the shop. “Tell me you have a bunch more tucked away somewhere.”

  “I didn’t spend it all.” Allyn showed him the four silver pieces in his hand. “See!”

  The sinking feeling in Magnus’s stomach grew worse.

  “Don’t roll your eyes like that, Mag,” Allyn said. “You don’t understand. The quality of the musician is limited by the quality of his instrument. This”—he stroked the lute’s rosewood neck—“this will allow me to show the nobles how brilliant I am.”

  Magnus’s shoulders sagged. “Oh, Allyn!”

  “Oh, Allyn what? With an instrument like this, I’ll have a patron by spring. Then no more playing for drunken louts in stuffy taverns. Speaking of which!” Allyn handed him the letter he’d been showing everybody all day. Magnus didn’t give it a second glance. He already knew what it said. “It’s from a tavern owner in Green Hill. He’s heard of me! Can you believe it? He’s heard of me all the way up in Green Hill! And he wants me to come play at his tavern. Two silver a week. Can you believe it? That’s on top of any tips I get. Plus, there’s bound to be nobles there. I hear it is the best tavern in Green Hill.”

  “What’s wrong, Mag?” Syntharin asked. “You look sick.”

  “I’m fine.” Then he said what he’d been rehearsing all night. “Hey, Allyn, how about if I go with you? It’s not safe traveling alone. There’re bandits and highwaymen. I’d hate for your new lute to get stolen.”

  “You’d go with me?” Allyn asked, surprised. “Mag, that’s really terrific of you. Thanks!” Magnus continued staring at the cobblestones, frowning. “You’re a true friend! I mean that. You’re a credit to—” Allyn thought. “To people like you everywhere!”

  Magnus trudged along next to Allyn. Syntharin eyed him.

  “What?” Magnus asked.

  “I think I’ll come with,” Syntharin told them. “Can’t let the two of you have all the fun!”

  “You?” Magnus said. “What about work?”

  Syntharin shrugged, cringing as he did so.

  Magnus noticed immediately. “You’re seriously hurt, aren’t you?”

  “It’ll get better. I just need to rest it for a few days.” Syntharin said as they walked along beside the gloating Allyn. People passing by looked at the musician as though he were deranged. He kissed the lute. “I’ve always wanted to go on an adventure.”

  “Yeah, well,” Magnus replied bitterly, “be careful what you wish for.”

  Chapter Twelve

  “Now”—Magnus stripped off his sodden clothes and tossed them into a pile on the pine-needle-covered ground—“isn’t this better than some gully?”

  Magnus, Allyn, and Syntharin were camped within a dense fir wood sur
rounding three hills. They’d been walking in a constant drizzle for most of the afternoon; however, now it was pouring. The rain pounded the mud around them in stinging waves. But thanks to the oilskin tarp Magnus had strung between four trees, they were surprisingly dry and comfortable.

  Famished, Magnus took three chomping bites of a cheese and onion sandwich.

  Syntharin hit flint against his fire striker, sending a shower of sparks into his tinderbox. “If you give me a minute,” he said to Magnus, “I can toast that for you.”

  “Maybe the second one,” Magnus said, his mouth full.

  Allyn peeled off his tunic. “Syn! You’re dripping everywhere. You’ll never get it to light!”

  A thin wisp of smoke arose from the tinder. Brushing back his wet, scraggly hair, Syntharin blew lightly on it. A yellow flame appeared. Carefully, he added wood shavings, then some twigs. Soon, he had a small blaze going.

  Syntharin smiled up at Allyn, his face illuminated by the orange glow of the growing flames. “You worry too much.”

  Allyn grunted as he hung his sopping clothes from the ropes supporting the tarp above them. “Make sure it doesn’t smoke a lot.” He smoothed out the wrinkles from his wet cloak. “I don’t want to get to Green Hill smelling like a chimney.”

  Magnus inhaled deeply. Natalie’s friends were right. The damp fir trees smelled heavenly.

  “Isn’t this great?” He took another bite of his sandwich. “We should never go home. We should get some swords and roam about the wild lands, exploring places regular people only dream of.”

  “Sure,” Allyn grumbled. “I love being cold and wet and tired.”

  “Come on, Allyn,” said Syntharin as he coaxed the flickering flames to take hold of the bark and sticks he’d piled together. “This is fun. It’s almost as if we were on some sort of adventure!”

  “Yeah! Exactly!”

  Magnus feigned enthusiasm but inwardly he felt guilty. He hated using his friends like this, but he had no choice. He needed that five gold, and in order to get it, he had to have alibis. Otherwise he could be strung up.

  Five gold! Even after paying his expenses, he could finally buy his way into a guild and get a few tools. Hell, he could get a better room—someplace with a stove or a fireplace.

  Syntharin was looking at him funny. He’d been doing that a lot lately.

  “What?” Magnus asked him.

  Syntharin shrugged and gave a hint of a smile. He snapped a stick in half and added it to the crackling fire. “Nothing.”

  “Oh, don’t do that,” Magnus said. “I hate when people say ‘nothing’ but they really mean something. And then you’re supposed to figure out what that something is. But if you can’t, you’re the ass. Come on. Out with it. Why the goofy grin?”

  Syntharin leaned against a fir tree and extended his long legs. “It’s interesting how you turned out to be our leader.”

  “What?” Allyn cried. “He’s not our leader. I am! I’m the reason for this trip. You’re all here to entertain me!”

  “Entertain you?” Syntharin asked.

  “Oh! You know what I mean.” Allyn put his damp boots close to the fire. “You’re here to keep me company, and to make sure I don’t get robbed. Anyway, he’s not the leader. I am!”

  “You wanted to camp in some open field!” Magnus finished his sandwich and started on a second. “If you didn’t follow me to these woods, we would be sitting in a bunch of mud with nothing for a fire but wet grass.”

  Allyn sputtered. “I, I—”

  “You have to admit, Allyn,” Syntharin said, eating a pear. He slurped the juice. “Magnus knew what he was doing when he led us to these woods. It’s very cozy. I hope the storm lasts all night. I love sleeping to the sound of rain.”

  “He didn’t lead us here!” Allyn insisted. “Okay, he was in front as we walked, but I’m the leader of this party. Do you understand? I’m the reason we’re going to Green Hill!” Then he added begrudgingly, “But this is a better camping site than what I would’ve picked. How did you know these woods would be here, Mag?”

  Magnus took a bite from his second sandwich. “I looked at a map.”

  “You?”

  “Yes, me.” Magnus swallowed. “I know I can’t read books and scrolls and things like that, but maps are different. There’s something special about them, you know? It’s like you can imagine yourself starting over somewhere completely new, without actually having to leave.”

  Without having to leave…

  Well, he’d left! He was finally out of the stinking city. And it wasn’t even very difficult. All he had to do was walk and make sure he knew where the good places to camp were. It was so easy, he might never return to Eryn Mas! Maybe he’d adventure around the continent, living off the land and finding long-lost treasure.

  Syntharin was talking. “…was good of you, either way, Mag. I never had a head for such things. Tell me what to lift and where to put it, and I’m fine. I’ll leave the travel arrangements to the likes of you.”

  “He didn’t make any arrangements,” Allyn said emphatically. “All he did was point to these hills and say: ‘Let’s camp there.’ I’m the leader! Me! I’m the one who told you to pack your own food!”

  Syntharin threw his pear core into the rain and lay next to the fire, now bright and popping. He went to put his hands behind his head and blanched. He massaged his shoulder.

  “Still hurting?” Magnus asked him.

  “No more than usual.”

  Magnus and Allyn exchanged concerned expressions.

  “Have you,” Magnus began tentatively, then stopped. Syntharin looked at him. “That is, have you ever thought about what you’ll do when you can’t work as a laborer? I mean, someday—”

  “I know.” Syntharin stared at the fire. “I can’t be lifting rocks and bales of hay the rest of my life.”

  “So what are you going to do?” Magnus asked.

  Syntharin shrugged, the firelight flickering across his content face. “This is kind of nice.”

  “Syn!” Allyn tossed his hands. “This isn’t a job! You need to plan for your future. You have to save money for a rainy day! What’s going to happen if your shoulder doesn’t heal?”

  Syntharin’s grin became strained. He wasn’t the type to get angry, but if he got annoyed, Syntharin would become sullen and stop talking. That’d mean Magnus would wind up being the target of Allyn’s perpetual nagging.

  “Hey, I have a question,” Magnus said, diverting the conversation. “Who’s going to take first watch? Shall we draw lots?”

  “Watch?” Allyn snorted. He lay on his bedroll as the rain pattered on the oilskin tarp above them. “Don’t be a moron. Why’d we keep a watch?”

  “To keep an eye out for goblins and trolls.”

  “You and your goblins and trolls.” Allyn rolled onto his side. He yawned. “Tell you what—if you see one, wake me up. If not, leave me alone. I’m exhausted. I can’t wait until I’m rich and famous and can afford a horse. I’ll never walk again. Now go to bed. We’re leaving first thing in the morning. Before dawn, in fact. And, so help me, Mag, if you snore!”

  “Me? Syn’s the one who snores.”

  “That’s true,” Syntharin admitted. “I’m so loud, I’ll scare the goblins and trolls away.”

  Allyn moaned. “Great! Just great! If either of you so much as snore once, I’m making you sleep in the rain. I mean it! Now, as your leader, I order you two to go to bed. I’m tired and want to get to Green Hill before nightfall tomorrow.”

  He covered his head with the blanket.

  Magnus and Syntharin silently saluted Allyn, then snickered.

  “I mean it!” Allyn said from under his blanket. “Go to bed.”

  Magnus and Syntharin pulled their blankets over themselves as thunder rumbled dully around the hills.

  “Do you really want to keep watch?” Syntharin asked Magnus, still rubbing his shoulder.

  “Naw! I was only kidding. There’s probably not a goblin or
troll within a hundred miles of here.”

  “There are no goblins or trolls!” Allyn said wearily. “They’re childish folktales.”

  Magnus rolled over onto his back. “If you say so.”

  “Allyn?” Syntharin said, the fire between them snapping merrily.

  “Yeah?”

  “Thanks for letting us go with you. This is exactly what I needed.”

  Allyn muttered something, then poked his head out from under his blanket. “Thanks for coming with me. It means a lot. I don’t think I would’ve had the guts to walk all this way by myself. Now go to bed. Both of you.”

  Syntharin lay on his side, grinning.

  Magnus closed his eyes lightly, waiting for the others to fall asleep. It wouldn’t take long, given how far they’d walked. They were all exhausted. They’d fall asleep in a matter of minutes and then he’d fulfill his mission.

  Five gold…

  Of course, after he gave Syn some and paid Allyn to play at the tavern, he’d have—what? Maybe three and a half gold left? Man, that was still a lot of money. Enough to find a good job and start over. Enough to get away from his past.

  Listening to the rhythmic pitter-patter of raindrops bouncing off the tarp above them, Magnus yawned. He then slipped into a warm, pleasant dream where he was crowned king of Eryn Mas and all the women loved him.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Magnus awoke with a jolt.

  The fire was out. The rain had stopped. And, judging from the moon illuminating the cloudy sky, dawn was only a few hours off.

  He swore. Next to him, Allyn shifted in his sleep.

  Magnus tugged on his boots. Their insides were still cold and clammy, but he’d have to deal with it.

  Syntharin opened a bleary eye. “What time is it?”

  “It’s the middle of the night. Go to sleep.” Magnus crawled out from underneath their makeshift shelter.

  Syntharin propped himself on an elbow. “Where you going?”

  “Gotta crap. Badly. Go to sleep. This may take a while.”

  Syntharin lay down. “Don’t get lost.”

  “I won’t. Go to sleep.”

  “And watch for bears.”