Kingdom in Turmoil (The Seven Islands Book 1)

by J. D. Morrison

  “What will the villagers think?”

  “That’s your problem.”

  Annie was proud of her master for not being intimidated by an authoritarian male, but she perceived Gandor to be a prideful man who, once embarrassed, could not be trusted. As she watched he and the boy leave she knew she would one day see them again. The reason was unclear, but she was beginning to catch glimpses of her future and both Gandor and the boy would play a significant role in what was to come.

  Cecracy

  He was always uncomfortable in another man’s breeches. He tied a rope around his waist to keep them up as the naked man lying unconscious below him was a bit larger than he. He had done this before, lured some unsuspecting highborn into a broom closet only to knock them senseless and steal their belongings. Small purses of gold and trinkets were not the prize tonight, however. The King’s head was.

  He chose an annual costume ball to carry out the deed so he could move freely among the patricians, dignitaries, and Royal Guard. His mask was black and white with a tall red feather at the top. It was no coincidence that he selected a noble wearing a costume made up of mostly black and grey. The black hood and cape suited him well.

  The ballroom was large to say the least and it was filled to the brim with the elite class of King’s Square. Those that made their fortune from the backs of commoners and lowborns believed it was the Gods’ will that they take time to celebrate their achievements in gatherings like this one. Cecracy was disgusted as he thought about what was going on in the halls and bedrooms in the floors above him. He presumed the boy king was worshipping in one of those rooms and would join the crowd momentarily.

  Men with small trays walked the room offering drinks to those that were not dancing. He knew that he needed to be selective with the glass he chose and careful to slip the poison in unnoticed. His heart pounded with excitement. This was to be his crowning achievement, an act that would garner legendary status not only for him but for The Shroud as well.

  The boy king entered the room and every person stopped what they were doing to bow, which is custom when in a king’s presence. He carried Modesitt, an epic sword named after the God of the Underworld. He let it rest on his shoulder like he had just emerged victorious from battle. Cecracy thought it odd to see a young boy hold such an esteemed weapon. He also thought about the prevailing rumors about the boy being more a researcher than a warrior, a notion that made sense to him as he sized up the boy’s size and stature.

  “Please, return to dancing,” the King shouted.

  The musicians began playing again and the promenade resumed. Another boy brushed by Cecracy on his way toward the King. He didn’t get a good look at him, but judged him to be the King’s size and age. When the boy reached the King, they embraced one another and sat at a long table at the front of the ballroom. It was clear that this other boy was a companion of the King’s and Cecracy needed to be careful not to alert him of his attentions.

  To his right he noticed a waiter with a small tray of two drinks moving toward the front of the ballroom.

  “Drinks!” the King shouted from across the room toward the man Cecracy just spotted. This was his chance, as risky as it was. He moved through the crowd quickly and with purpose. In his right palm was the red capped vial he had purchased from the witch seven days ago. He would need to poison the drink when both the King’s and the boy’s lines of sight were obstructed and do it without the waiter noticing it was being done.

  “Excuse me,” he said to the waiter as he grabbed his shoulder.

  “Yes, sir?”

  He leaned in to whisper in the waiter’s ear as his opposite hand poured the vial’s contents into both glasses.

  “Where’s the lavatory? The veal seems to have disagreed with me.”

  “Yes, sir, it is at the end of that hall,” he said, pointing toward the eastern part of the ballroom.

  “Thank you eternally,” he said as he turned to play out the rest of the act.

  Moments later the waiter had arrived at the King’s table. Cecracy watched from across the ballroom. The waiter lowered the tray in front of the King and his companion. They both took glasses and clanged them together. The boy took the first drink, but the King was distracted by a large Royal Guard soldier that appeared from nowhere. He had the King’s ear for quite some time which could potentially be disastrous if he doesn’t take a drink soon.

  Just then the boy sitting beside the King began choking. The music and chatter was loud so only those with eyes looking in that direction knew what was happening. The king grabbed the boy and shook him. Cecracy heard him say “Leeon” at one point. The boy begun coughing up blood clots the size of fists. The large Royal Guard soldier next to the King drew his sword and shouted orders to the various guards posted around the room. Each guard drew their sword and stood in the entrances and exits to the room. The room was in chaos.

  Cecracy had already exited through a window at the end of the hall. He ran quickly through the Royal Garden and toward a clearing with a dense forest on the other side. In his right hand, he held the red capped vial that was now emptied of its contents. In his left hand, he held the blue capped vial that could have been used to save the boy. He throws them both down and disappears into the forest.

  Lynad

  He used the same path through the forest he had used that night. He wasn’t sure how many days had passed since he touched the black sphere in the woods, but he knew that he had never felt as strong as he feels today and that touching the sphere and interacting with the figure were directly responsible.

  He made a fist with his black hand, still in awe and confused by it. His black foot as well. Upon close inspection, he had noticed that blood doesn’t flow into either and yet he has feeling in both. He wanted answers and the best place to get them was from the source. It didn’t mean him harm after all, he assumed. If it meant him harm it wouldn’t have restored his foot.

  Ahead a few hundred feet he spots the top of the sphere. Sunlight reflects off the top of it, nearly blinding him. He hears the clanging and chinking of what sounds like a hammer against a pot. As he gets closer he notices the black smoky figure that visited his humble cottage that fateful night. It moved to and fro quite quickly as it attended to numerous cracks in and impressions on the sphere.

  On the ground near the sphere he noticed three separate piles of different colored rocks and pebbles. The figure would gather a few from each pile and insert them in the cracks and indentations of the sphere. Near the piles he noticed a small pool of boiling water, which seemed odd to him.

  Then, suddenly, it turned and spotted him in the brush. It hovered in place as it seemingly waited for Lynad to make a move.

  “I mean you no harm,” he said, stepping out from behind a bush. “See? My hands are raised.” He looked up at both hands, focusing on the black one a second longer than the other.

  The figure glided over to him and stood before him for a few moments before one of its limbs wrapped around his side and back and pulled him down toward the crater the sphere had created.

  “What’s going on? I said I mean you no harm.”

  The figure pulled him down the crater and toward the three piles of rocks on the ground. One of its limbs picked up one of the rocks and showed it to him. It was yellow and nonmetallic.

  “Right, brimstone. It’s abundant in these parts,” he said.

  The figure placed the brimstone down and then picked up a rock from the other pile. It was black and lightweight. The figure pulled it up for him to see closely.

  “And that’s charcoal. We use that for cooking.”

  The figure put the charcoal back in its pile and pulled from the third pile. The third pile was a mound of what looked like white powder. This was a mineral Lynad was not familiar with. The figure pushed it up near his face so he could get a good look.

  “I don’t know what that is,” he said, hoping the figure could quickly learn common tongue and tell him.

  The figur
e put the powder down and then picked up a few pieces of charcoal and a rock of brimstone. With two of its limbs it crushed the two together and sprinkled the powder into one of Lynad’s pots. The figure then glided over to the pool of boiling water. It pulled Lynad along with it. He saw the figure submerge the pot a few inches so that boiling water entered the pot with the powder. The figure held the pot for a few seconds before gliding back over to the three piles. It then sprinkled some of the white powder into the pot to mix with the other powders.

  “I’m not sure what you’re doing,” he admitted.

  The figure stirred the pot’s contents for quite some time before a wet, grayish sludge formed. It then placed the pot on the ground and hovered over to and into the sphere. Lynad, confused, wasn’t sure how he should be reacting to all of this. Was the figure trying to teach him something?

  It emerged from the sphere with a grey cylinder and returned to the pot. The figure poured the contents of the cylinder into the pot and began stirring it with one of its limbs. After a few minutes of stirring, the figure cleared a spot on the ground before flipping the pot over and pouring out small, fine pebbles that dried in the sun rather quickly.

  Lynad looked at the pebbles closely. They were unlike anything he had ever seen. But why go through all this trouble to just make more rocks, he thought.

  The figure gathered several of the pebbles and put them in the now empty cylinder. It reached over to small cluster of dry leaves which it then placed in the top open part of the cylinder. It then held up one of its limbs and a flame appeared. It lit the dry leaves on fire and then closed the cylinder over it. It held the cylinder in front of Lynad for a few seconds before heaving it into the air. Lynad watched as the cylinder exploded into a ball of fire.

  “God’s hell!” he shouted.

  It took a moment for Lynad to recognize what was happening. The figure wanted to enlighten him. He welcomed it as he was nearing the twilight years of his life and had little to no contact with the outside world, save Dragon. His head was spinning with ideas of how he could use what the figure had just created before his eyes. As the day drug on, the figure showed Lynad how to make all sorts of explosives and small gadgets. It was the best day he had had in more than a decade.

  Rinehart II

  “This is a direct assault on you and your name, Your Majesty.”

  Sir Ga’rane rarely spoke aloud in council meetings. In fact, he was rarely invited to attend them at all. The boy was still a little shaken after last night’s assassination attempt and the death of Leeon, his most trusted companion, so he felt the need to safeguard not only himself but the Royal Council as well. Sir Wein was not the only one who disagreed with this decision, but he presumed it wasn’t his place to assert his opinions on the matter, especially after what almost happened last night.

  Rinehart looked around the table at the wardens, studying their faces. No one knows who the suspected assassin was or who had hired him, which made the King second guess whom he could trust. He had reservations about Sir Girfroy of the Eastern Parts and Sir Hilderinus of the West, but they had served his father so well that he struggled to believe that either of them would be responsible. And then he looked at the empty chair where Sir Terric once sat.

  “Sir Wein,” the boy said. “Has Sir Terric returned to his home in the South or has he left Tresladore altogether?”

  “He did feel quite disgraced at his final Royal Council meeting, Your Majesty,” Sir Wein replied.

  “I can send a bird to learn of his whereabouts, Your Majesty,” Sir Ga’rane volunteered.

  “Yes, let us do that. We wouldn’t want the disgraced Sir Terric to make any more foolish decisions,” he said.

  Sir Ga’rane bowed and exited the room to prepare a messenger bird. As the door closed behind him, the King stood to address the council. The members of the council knew that when the boy stood to talk there was no reasoning with him. It was true when he forced out Sir Terric and it was true when he organized a study of foreign religions. It was no surprise to Sir Wein that both of those decisions ended up being quite unpopular with the nobles of King’s Square.

  “It is my hope that you will all agree that Sir Ga’rane has earned his place on our council. He served my father well for many years and is well-respected in the kingdom for his unwillingness to accept imprudence from his soldiers or defeat in battle. As I understand, there are whispers of a rebellion in the South. Who better to stave off an insurrection than a military mind?”

  “Your Majesty, a military mind is currently, unofficially, governing the South as it is. Lord Commander Fortineth administers the King’s will from Fort Asbury,” said Sir Girfroy.

  “Sir Girfroy,” the King replied, “it is important that the people know we are ruling based on logic and reason and that we do not allow important decisions to be made by those who do not have the authority to make them. At the end of his service I will ensure that Lord Commander Fortineth be given lands and a new title, but he is not my choice for Warden of the South. Also, how can we safely say that he is truly administering my will in the area? I tell you right now that it is not my will that his soldiers periodically rape and murder lowborns or force people from their homes.”

  Sir Ogderrin and Sir Hilderinus sat in silence, assuming their opinions did not matter and hoping the boy wouldn’t ask them to share. They, and Sir Wein as well, were beginning to realize Rinehart II was more like Rinehart I than what they thought he’d be. When he first came to power his eyes were set on reforming various social and religious issues, a perception that excited the brainy Sir Ogderrin. Now it seems like his mind is on military affairs, like defense and increasing the Royal Guard. In fact, earlier in the day’s meeting he had mentioned the need to establish an elite unit of the most intelligent Royal Guard soldiers to run missions in parts of the kingdom that were anti-King’s Square, an idea that undoubtedly came from Sir Ga’rane.

  “No other opinions on the matter?” the King asked, referring to the appointment of Sir Ga’rane as Warden of the South.

  “Let the King’s will be done,” Sir Ogderrin said.

  “Aye,” said Sir Girfroy and Sir Hilderinus.

  “Whatever Your Majesty feels is best,” said Sir Wein.

  Rinehart knew what he was doing and felt apprehensive about it. As he looked at the men’s faces he recognized their submission to his resolution. It troubled him that he was beginning to sound like his father who rarely compromised his vision for the kingdom. He believed that sort of attribute is admirable to an extent, but when those ruling with you have no say or can’t see your vision it is difficult to maintain their allegiances. He had already removed one beloved member from his council and was reluctant to accept the resignation of a second. He wanted to be remembered as an active king, one who resolved to making life better for the underclass, but the most pressing matter on his mind these days was protection and safety.

  “Good, so let it be written…Sir Ga’rane is the new Warden of the Southern Parts as mandated by the King,” the boy declared.

  Part IV

  Braume

  “They’re just children!” Dentrik shouted, as he ran his sword through the chest of what appeared to be a thirteen-year old boy.

  Blood dripped down Braume’s brow. He had taken a hit from a wooden shield a few minutes ago and the vision in his left eye was obstructed, but not so obstructed that he couldn’t cut down a half-dozen teenagers as he rushed through the gates of Fort Asbury, though.

  “Artyom! Stay close,” he shouted.

  Artyom was tasting battle for the first time and nothing his father could say would distract him from his goal of thirty kills. His experience with a sword had been limited as Braume taught the boys to first learn how to fight with fists and then with whatever weapon may present itself in a skirmish. Available weapons on the farm ranged from shovels to rakes to axes. In fact, Artyom had equipped a small hatchet on his belt before Dentrik presented him with a used claymore the night before. He hadn’t
found a use for the hatchet just yet, but there was still time.

  Dentrik was right, the members of the Royal Guard assigned to guard the fort were merely boys. Additionally, they were given leather armor as opposed to the standard Royal Guard plate, an observation that confused both Braume and Dentrik. Their claymores, broadswords, and longswords ran straight through the light leather armor the boy soldiers wore. It was more a massacre than a battle.

  Lord Commander Fortineth stood on the balcony adjacent to his quarters. He watched as farmers and traders – the lowborn of the South – took Fort Asbury with little resistance. He then looked past the gates and into the forest. He noticed several clouds of smoke rising above the trees. Had he a capable soldier on watch the night before he could have made preparations for the day’s battle.

  “Fire! Damn you!” Fortineth shouted at a line of archers on the balcony circling the inner quarter of the fort. However, even the archers were boys. One could only assume their experience firing arrows at humans was limited.

  “Shields!” Braume shouted as he raised a wooden shield above his head. The other men followed his command and shielded their heads from a spray of arrows from above. Arrows bounced off shields, broke in two upon impact, or lodged in the backs of the few remaining Royal Guard Boys, as they’d later be called, that were fighting on the ground.

  “We almost have the fort, men!” shouted Dentrik. “Keep pushing!”

  “Again!” Fortineth commanded, knowing that it was only a matter of time before he and all his men were slaughtered.

  “We’re hitting our own men!” an archer shouted.

  Fortineth ran over to him and drove his father’s blackrock dagger through his neck.

  “When I give you a command you follow it! Fire!”

  The archers fired again and it was the same result as before. More Royal Guard soldiers died than the farmers and traders that made up Dentrik’s army.