“Now, rush the balcony!” Dentrik shouted.
Dentrik, Braume, and Artyom led charges up the balcony from all directions. They cut through every boy archer as they charged the Lord Commander’s quarters. Each bathed in the blood of their enemies.
Fortineth sheathed his bloodstained dagger and drew his longsword, ready to die honorably. Fortineth the Red will not die without giving his enemies hell, he thought. Each side of the balcony was closing in on him. Several boys jumped off the balcony and gates only to be slayed by members of Dentrik’s army that were waiting for them.
“Fight me one at a time, you cowards!” he shouted at Dentrik, Braume, and Artyom.
The last boy archer fell to the ground in front of Fortineth. He gripped his longsword tightly, showing the whites of his knuckles. He had fought three men at the same time once before, but the three men in front of him today had a dozen or so behind them ready and eager to take swings at him.
“Which one of you is man enough to fight me alone?”
A hatchet whizzed by Braume’s ear and cracked the Lord Commander’s jaw. The impact nearly knocked him over. He dropped his sword and grabbed the hatchet from his face and neck. He jerked it out causing a geyser of blood to erupt from his jugular. He reared back to throw the hatchet toward Artyom before Dentrik’s sword entered the back of his head and exited through his mouth.
Farmers and traders – the lowborn of the South – had taken Fort Asbury.
“Your boy fought like hell, Bear,” Dentrik said. “You should be proud.”
Braume turned to face his oldest son. He had never been as proud of him as he was today. He tried to wipe the blood out of his eye to get a better look at the warrior that now stood before him, but he couldn’t. So much blood had filled his eye socket that seeing out of it was no longer an option. No matter though, he only needed one eye to recognize what an important day this was for all the men and women of the South and, individually speaking, his son who would someday have the land and title he deserved.
The rest of the men gathered in the lower quarter of the fort to look up at the new governor in the South, whomever that would be. Dentrik and Braume had not discussed who would lead once Fort Asbury had fallen. Deep down they both didn’t believe they would make it this far. They looked at each other with respect and mutual affection. Dentrik, considering himself more a soldier than a leader, stepped up to address the men.
“Every last one of you fought bravely today and should be proud of what we have accomplished. The South is ours!” he shouted.
The men cheered and beat their swords against their shields. Dentrik looked to Braume again and smiled, signaling to him that he was about to do something that should be remembered for all time.
“I may not have the Gods’ esteem or the license of King’s Square, but I can safely say that we are in the presence of the new King of the South.” Braume knew what Dentrik was up to and he wasn’t sure he agreed with it.
“Those that thirst for power always rule with one thing in mind…how do I get more power? Braume the Bear, the noblest of all of us, has proven time-and-time again that he deserves all the admiration and allegiance we have given him. He is one that does not have an appetite for more influence, a rare type of man. He determines what is best for himself and his boys through contemplation and reflection, not how his decision will be perceived by his neighbors. He will do what is right because he knows it’s right. He is the type of man we want leading us through this dark time. Therefore, by my authority and the authority of all of you that have shed blood with him today, I name Braume, of the House Kellner, to be the King of the South!”
The men shouted - “King of the South, King of the South, King of the South” - in unison and beat their swords against their shields again for several moments. Braume looked to Artyom who smiled approvingly. He was just as proud of his father as his father was proud of him.
Rinehart II
“Sir Terric is nowhere to be found, Your Majesty,” Sir Ga’rane said. The two of them stood outside a large wooden door leading into the Royal Council room. “He was last spotted en route to Avanton. My men have turned that village upside down looking for him.”
“What of his family?” the King asked.
“They’re gone as well.”
Rinehart was troubled by this for obvious reasons. Sir Terric spent many years on the Royal Council and knows a great deal more than the King would like. His father was an aggressive man, known to be quite forceful when certain pleasures were withheld from him. The boy knew of at least one occasion where his father took advantage of Sir Terric’s hospitality and bedded his oldest daughter. Perhaps vengeance was on his mind. Perhaps escape and seclusion. The boy didn’t know and it frightened him.
“There is another pressing matter that requires your attention,” Sir Ga’rane continued. “It appears that a band of farmers have murdered Lord Commander Fortineth and overtaken Fort Asbury.”
“What?” the King whispered.
“A wheat farmer is calling himself King of the South.”
“How long have you known this?”
“I received word last night.”
“And what are you doing about it?”
“I’m awaiting your orders, Your Majesty.”
The boy knew he could simply tell his new Warden of the South to quash the rebellion and be done with it, but he remembered the subdued faces of the men he called his Royal Council. He was troubled by the notion that they were feeling irrelevant in kingdom matters. He wanted that to change. He wanted them to rule with him.
“Let’s take this news to the council and decide together,” the boy said.
“All due respect, Your Majesty, but what is there to decide? I can assemble my men in an hour and take back the fort in three days’ time.”
“Sir Ga’rane, this is how I want it to be.”
The boy opened the door and entered the room where he spotted the other members of his council. Sir Wein sat off to the side as was his custom and Sir Ogderrin’s head was in a text as was his custom. Sir Girfroy and Sir Hilderinus drank their ale without reservation as it didn’t matter to them if they were sober in these meetings.
He knew he couldn’t be too forward with his agenda anymore. If he wanted the kingdom to thrive he had to work with these men. His father didn’t, resulting in two civil wars and dozens of skirmishes. He wanted to rule a people that were logical - that first chose reason to solve the many daily issues they faced. How can he expect his people to live their lives like this if he didn’t model it at King’s Square?
“Gentlemen, there has been a rebellion in the South. Fort Asbury has been overrun by a band of wheat farmers and Lord Commander Fortineth has been murdered,” the King said.
This news shocked the members of the council, but it wasn’t a great surprise as tensions in the South had been escalating for quite some time now. Each member was reminded of Sir Terric’s last day in the Royal Council room when he had tried to warn them.
“What do you recommend we do, Your Majesty?” Sir Hilderinus asked.
The boy looked at him and then at the other members as he took his seat at the head of the table. Sir Ga’rane’s heavy feet echoed in the chamber, his plate armor clanging as he walked by and took his seat at the opposite end of the table.
“What would you recommend, Sir Hilderinus?” the King replied.
“I’m sorry, Your Majesty. What do you mean?”
“It’s a simple question. If a rebellion started in your region what would you do?”
“The West is peaceful, Your Majesty.”
“How about you, Sir Girfroy?” the King asked. “What would you do in this present situation?”
“There is no place for resistance to the will of the King. I would enlist the services of the Royal Guard and suppress it, Your Majesty,” he replied.
“And you, Sir Ogderrin?”
“Rebellions are like weeds, Your Majesty. They can overtake a garden if they are not roo
ted out at the source.”
“Sir Wein, any thoughts on the matter?”
It had been a long time since Sir Wein was asked for input during a Royal Council meeting and Rinehart noted a hint of sorrow on his face. He had regretted taking the role of Consulate as the boy king never intended on adhering to anyone’s advice other than his own. He was aging rather quickly and was thinking about starting a family before it was too late. In that moment Rinehart made a promise to himself that he would invite Sir Wein’s individual council on a number of other matters outside of the Royal Council meetings.
“I agree with Sir Ogderrin, Your Majesty. If we do not understand why the rebellion has occurred, then we are in no position to prevent future insurgencies.”
“It’s settled then. Diplomacy is the first step. We initiate talks with this King of the South and if he is hostile, we fight and retake Fort Asbury. If he is willing to accept terms we reestablish our authority in the region through compromise.”
He then realized that he would need to dispatch at least two members of his council to negotiate with the rebels. He knew each man’s thoughts and decided to choose two that had differing opinions, an idea he thought logical at the time.
“Sir Ga’rane and Sir Wein, you will be my representatives at the meeting. I expect a full report in five days,” the King commanded.
Annie
“The day is close upon us, child.”
The witch stood over her cauldron as she did every day for the past seven years. Annie sat at a little table in the corner with a few different books open. Every now and then she thought about murdering the witch and sailing to the northern island of Havendore where it was said that witches were welcome. The witch needed to restore her voice first, though. Besides, her calling was to reestablish the need for magic in Tresladore, the only island where it was prohibited. So, killing the witch and fleeing the island seemed cowardly to her.
“What day, you’re probably asking yourself,” the witch continued as she took a seat across from Annie. “I have been the Raven of the Layhe coven for thirty years. I’m old and tired and ready to fly home. I have chosen you to replace me. This isn’t news, I’m sure. But a Raven has to show its beak very early in the power transition process or other little birds will try contest the shift. Right now, in the forest to the east, there are two others like me who have been training disciples.”
This last bit was news to Annie. She had known since the beginning that she was being discipled to take over the coven, but she didn’t know she would have to demonstrate her power against other disciples. She, now four months into her twentieth year, had a working knowledge of every spell that could be cast without the use of voice. She could set small fires with the wave of three fingers and freeze a small rodent with the push of her palm. She had read every book in the witch’s library at least a dozen times and could quote full passages from the various History of Wizardry and Witchcraft books written by an unknown author. She was ready for the transition, but felt handicapped by her lack of voice.
“A bloody battle has recently concluded and the dead have been moved into a long, short grave. We will leave in the morning to see this grave. It is the site where the transition will begin. I am at peace with my soul and am ready to join the Goddesses in the clouds.”
The witch looked Annie over. Annie’s face was stern, serious, contemplative. For a moment, the witch regretted stealing the poor girl’s youth all those years ago. She brushed that tinge of regret away when she thought about the poor, miserable life she would’ve led if she didn’t take her from the forest that day.
“Have you made your peace with the Goddesses, child?”
Annie and the witch had never discussed the afterlife and what it entailed for witches. It was interesting to Annie that the witch was now bringing this up, the day before the transition of power. She shrugged her shoulders.
“It’s important that you make your peace as a transition of power is no gentle thing. It will hurt like fire and, for several days, you’ll wish you had died. In fact, one witch killed herself two days after she transitioned.”
The witch rose and waddled over to her bed. She reached under it and grabbed a small text, probably twenty pages long. It looked old and water damaged. She waddled back to the table and sat back down. Her breathing was labored and she could barely keep her eyes open. It had become apparent to Annie that the witch was incredibly close to the end and she would be alone very soon.
“Our Order doesn’t abide by the rules, regulations, and consequences of the human-created island gods invented 10,000 years ago. Ours are much older than that, and female.”
The witch laid the text on the table and flipped to the first page.
“We worship the true gods of this world, the five Goddesses. They are the gods of our senses and invoking their powers is a sign of a true Raven. If you want to lead the coven and be the supreme sorcerous I know you can be you will have to learn their ways and their will. Do you understand?”
Annie nodded her head yes.
“Good. You will have an opportunity to prove it tomorrow.”
The witch gently pushed the text across the table toward Annie. She got up and returned to her cauldron. Annie flipped through the text which was is Dranic, a language she had not yet learned. No matter, though. Give me enough time and I can learn anything, she thought.
Cecracy
The fire crackled slightly. No moon tonight which made the dark that much darker. He had been working alone for years now, but tonight was the first time he felt lonely. He presumed that going back to The Shroud wasn’t an option. When a member is unable to complete a mission, they are excommunicated from the guild and, in some cases, executed. He was aware of this and was devastated by it. The guild was everything to him.
“Cecracy?” a voice whispered from behind.
He jumped to his feet and, without thinking, drew his daggers.
A man in a black cape and hood, the customary dress of The Shroud, stepped forward into view. His name was Erlaf and he had served as Cecracy’s mentor during the early months of his initiation. He was twice the size and age of Cecracy and was well-respected by the other members of the order. The two were very fond of each other and had served the guild at opposite ends of the island for the past year.
“Put those away, brother,” Erlaf said.
Cecracy unarmed himself and retook his seat on the log across from the fire.
“So, they want my head or no?”
Erlaf took a seat on another log across from him and the fire. He pulled out a rolled-up scroll from his pocket and held it up for Cecracy to see. He didn’t have to read it as he had seen a scroll like that before. That paper confirmed his greatest fear, that he was now dismissed from the order that he had cherished for the past several years.
“Just dismissal or more?” he asked.
“Your mission was the King. Do you think they’d let you live?”
“And they sent you to see it’s done?”
“I’m one of five.”
“Balor instructed five members to hunt me down?”
“You have a reputation.”
This was unprecedented. Balor, the highlord of The Shroud, had never sent that many members on a mission before. Cecracy was terrified and moved at the same time. He had been perceived as a considerable threat by the most threatening band of assassins Tresladore has ever known. Oddly, he considered it to be an honor to be targeted by such professionals.
“So, where do we go from here…brother?” Cecracy asked.
“We don’t go anywhere. I never saw you.”
Cecracy couldn’t help but smile. His beloved mentor was offering him an escape which also would be considered a precedent. Members of The Shroud tended to be the most violent, greedy, and selfish men in Tresladore. Rarely did they show emotion or compassion for anyone. What Erlaf was doing for him today was what a father would do for a son. It nearly moved him to tears.
“Where will I go?”
“There is a ship leaving for Havendore tomorrow night. I would suggest you be on it.”
“From Port Royal?”
Erlaf nodded his head yes.
In Cecracy’s mind there were no other options. He needed to leave Tresladore and disappear forever. The idea saddened him, but he knew it was for the best. Erlaf always knew what was best for him. Images of his new life on Havendore flashed before his eyes. He saw himself with a wife and a corner lot at a local market where he peddled fruit all day. It wasn’t what he wanted, but it was going to be what he needed - an ordinary life. For a brief moment he thought he preferred the alternative, but hastily recognized that life, no matter how uneventful and tedious it may be, will always trump death.
He gathered his things and mounted Dagger. He gave Erlaf a nod and rode off into the darkness and toward a future he wasn’t necessarily thrilled about.
Lynad
It was gone.
Lynad stood in the same spot he stood that day the figure saw him. He had visited the black smoky figure every day for six months and watched as it tinkered with the giant black sphere. It took time, every now and then, to teach him various things about how minerals and elements reacted to one another. In fact, Lynad had made it a point to record all the valuable lessons the figure had been teaching him. In his hand was a notebook filled from cover to cover of all he had learned since that first day. But now the sphere was gone and so was the figure.
It was a long disappointing walk back to his cottage. Dragon had died some months before and he had been happy to have another companion, even though it was unable to speak common tongue. He tossed the notebook on his bed and took a seat at his dinner table. His eyes regarded all the contraptions and gadgets he had built under the figure’s guidance. He realized, months ago, that most of the objects were projectile or explosive in nature. His eyes stopped on the large metal ball at the middle of his dining table. He had filled it with blasting powder the day before and planned on testing it in the open field a few hundred yards from his cottage. He expected the blast radius to be quite large so he had been engineering a fuse that could be lit from a safe distance. It was rolled up in the corner.
Kingdom in Turmoil (The Seven Islands Book 1) Page 6