In Service Of The King (Book 2)

by Steven Styles

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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  In Service of the King Copyright 2012 Steven Styles and L. R. Styles. All Rights Reserved.

  PREFACE

  ~

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  PREFACE

  Across the wide, silent valley a thick fog drifted down from the tops of the coastal hills, flowing like slow, white fire. A solitary lantern dimly glowed, moving through the swirls of the fog; a horse’s hooves upon flagstone broke the stillness of the winter night. The lantern lit the aged and noble features of the rider, a fine blue coat and shined boots. On his chest gleamed medals of past battles; by his side hung a warrior’s sword in a gold-inlaid sheath. He rode with ease, his horse sure and strong.

  The highway rose and the fog thinned as horse and rider reached the crest of a small hill where the air was clear enough to see the entire expanse of the valley; all around the traveler the fog was still, stretching out like a white lake. Above the horse and rider, the stars glittered like thousands of jewels on a black velvet cloth.

  The elderly soldier suddenly checked his horse. He heard a sound like distant thunder, and the ground shook with low rumbling; it was faint, but grew as the rider listened. Turning, he held up his lantern and look whence he had come. There were no clouds in the sky but still the rumbling grew, until the earth below the rider began to shake. His horse stamped the ground, its ears back.

  A faint, moving light appeared in the fog far below. It was soon joined by another. After a moment dozens of lights shone through the fog, not lanterns, nor carriage lights but torches; balls of untamed fire coming quickly up the hill towards the aged horseman as clattering hooves pounded the flagstones. Spurring his horse, the old soldier urged his steed to run, down into the fog, away from the torches.

  ONE

  LATE INTO the night—on the outskirts of a small town on the Great Bay—the covered windows of the smithy glowed red.

  Sitting northeast of the Capital, the small town of Dorenvines was known for its inns with their good, fish stews, delicious bread, the vast estates surrounding the picturesque bay and the small, fishing port. The very air in the town was calm and pleasant to breathe. Long closed for the night, the smithy nevertheless held within its walls a flurry of activity. A cool breeze blew fog-laden air into the heated shop. Bright swords lined the smithy walls—their blades reflecting the red, flickering firelight—crossed now and again by the moving shadow of the blacksmith’s hammer. Sparks flew from the hot metal extinguishing themselves on the cold, stone floor.

  A striped cat watched the work from its safe perch, a table at the far corner of the room; the cat’s eyes followed the glowing, falling sparks but it did not leap down to chase them. The smith ceased hammering for a moment, long enough to turn the unfinished blade slowly, inspecting the progress with pensive, brown eyes before continuing to shape the weapon with forcible blows.

  The smithy door—next to the cat’s perch—suddenly opened sending the small animal racing for the corner most filled with shadows. Out of the corner of his eye the young blacksmith saw a tall, cloaked figure enter his shop, the face shaded by the cloak’s hood. As the smith turned to face the newcomer the cloaked figure drew out a thin-bladed sword and held it a moment, before laying it on the table.

  “Greetings, Joseph Asher… Lord of Stone Mountain,” the stranger said, pushing back his hood; the man was middle aged and possessed a finely groomed beard and kindly eyes. The blacksmith grinned and stepped forward, his hand extended.

  “Hezekiah,” the smith said. “Blessings.”

  “Blessings to you,” the newcomer returned, clasping the smith’s hand. “I hear replacements are the order of the day.” He looked around the inside of the forge. “So, this is what you built on your new estate? The king himself grants you land and a spacious estate… and yet you live here.”

  The smith stepped back to his workbench with a smile.

  “It is warmer in here,” said he. “Also, I can’t get lost trying to find my own room.” Hezekiah chuckled at this; removing his cloak, the visitor sat down by the table, using an overturned barrel as a stool.

  “The bay cottage is barely half a league from this place; why not stay there?” Hezekiah continued. “I’ll wager it is small enough to locate one’s bearings in.” Joseph pulled on the bellows until the flames leaped again.

  “It is still too far away from town and my tasks,” he replied, firmly. Hezekiah nodded; he cast an appreciative eye over the dozens of swords hung nearby on a sooty wall.

  “I see you are nearly complete with the royal task,” the man mused aloud. Joseph stuck the misshapen plank of metal back into the hot coals and wiped his brow with his worn sleeve.

  “I am,” he returned, taking a seat himself on the other side of the table; the smith took a long drink from a nearby mug of water and then leaned back against the wall to rest a bit. He gestured to the wall of blades. “Perhaps there a blade among those that will suit you.”

  At this, Hezekiah stood and strolled over to the weapon wall; bending down, he looked first at one sword and then another; he selected one and tested the balance and grip before placing it back on its hook.

  “I have news that may interest you,” he stated, taking down another sword and repeating the process. “A deep stirring is afoot—among the esteemed circles of the military aristocracy.”

  Joseph listened, suddenly feeling a little more awake.

  “Stirring is highly overdue,” he said, leaning forward; he stared at his feet, resting his elbows on the tops of his knees. Chuckling, Hezekiah continued his search.

  “That is not an opinion shared by the recipients of the subsequent waves, my friend,” he replied, jabbing a long, shiny blade outward at some imaginary foe. “I have heard that his most beloved self, General Octavian Hays, is soon to retire.”

  The name caused Joseph to look up sharply at Hezekiah.

  “Retire?” the young man asked, surprised. Hezekiah smiled at the sword in his hand.

  “Yes, well… that is what we are calling it,” he said, returning to his seat on the stool. He held up the new sword. “This one suits me well, Joseph,” said he, watching the glints of light reflect on the shined surface o
f the blade. “A superb weapon, if I may say so.”

  “Thank you,” Joseph said. “I thought you would favor that one.” Looking closely at the hilt, Hezekiah beheld his own name, already inscribed in the metal; he smiled. “About General Hays…” Joseph continued. “Will he stay in Khilar?”

  Hezekiah took up a clean cloth from the tables top and began polishing his new sword.

  “You have a vested interest in the soon-to-be-civilian Hays’ future location, I think,” he said, plaintively. Looking back at the floor, Joseph studied his boots.

  “So far as the letters I have been sending to Elizabeth Hays, this last year.”

  “Ah yes….” Hezekiah said, his eyes twinkling. “I hope that ends well for you both. In the meanwhile, the good General and his family will be shortly in need of housing.”

  “How so?” Joseph asked, surprised. “He has a rich estate there at the Fort. I have seen it.”

  At this, Hezekiah’s eyes took on a mischievous look.

  “Due to the somewhat eccentric system of military government, the general of each fort is really a guest,” the older man explained, polishing the sword meditatively. “An estate is provided for him for the length of his tenure but after the commander retires, he usually buys the estate from the King.” Hezekiah paused a moment, sliding the new sword into one of the empty sheaths stacked nearby; as he spoke, he began the difficult task of threading his leather belt through the stiff slits. “The trouble with aristocracy is that it is expensive, especially for the wife of a General,” he continued, looking over at Joseph. “A person whom—I believe—you already know…”

  “We have met,” Joseph answered, darkly. Reaching for a nearby pitcher, he poured a little ale into his mug and some for his guest as well.

  “Much obliged,” Hezekiah said, taking the offered mug. “It is warm in here for a winter’s night.”

  “So, the General’s coffers are insufficient to buy the Khilar estate?” Joseph asked, after a moment. Hezekiah took a long drink from his mug, running the liquid around in his mouth for a moment before swallowing.

  “As empty as this cup,” he said, looking into his mug. “This ale is quite palatable.” Smiling, Joseph poured more of the fragrant brew for his guest. “Much obliged,” Hezekiah continued. “Yes, it is difficult being the wife of a general… all those balls to arrange, social gatherings, parties, dressmakers and jewelers, all coming to make yet another gown for yet another dinner, presents for diplomats, trips to fashionable cities… money buys position but it runs out eventually, and never brings satisfaction.” As his speech ended Hezekiah’s voice took on a slight edge; he stared dully into the forge’s flames, holding his mug out in front him.

  “You seem to know them well,” Joseph remarked. Hezekiah cleared his throat and shook his head.

  “I have not had that privilege,” he said. “Sadly, I speak from experience.”

  Both men stared thoughtfully into the flames for a moment.

  “As for General Hays,” Hezekiah continued, “his family can work for their living, or perhaps some kind landowner will have pity on them and offer them a place to stay.” Silence reigned as the men sat, looking at the flickering light of the flames, each face set with a different expression. The older man’s countenance held traces of bitterness, and melancholy, while the young smith looked pensive.

  A firm knock on the door roused Joseph from his thoughts.

  “Friend or foe?” Hezekiah called out.

  “A little of both!” a gruff voice answered. Hezekiah chuckled in spite of himself. Joseph stood, one corner of his mouth upturned.

  “If so, then let him in,” he said, opening the door.

  Two cloaked men stepped through the narrow door, one after the other; one man stood taller than the other. “Blessings,” the smith greeted, nodding his head once.

  “Blessings to you as well, Lord Asher,” answered the tall, gray-eyed man. The shorter visitor smelled of sea air and tobacco.

  “Good to see you lad,” said he, shaking off his hood. “And, I see you are in good company tonight,” the man continued, with a nod at Hezekiah.

  “Tyrus… Dunner,” Hezekiah said, standing. “You’ve come a long way to fetch a sword.”

  As Hezekiah spoke Joseph walked to the wall of blades and selected a long, slowly tapered weapon with an unusually ornate handle; he presented it to Tyrus.

  “A fine blade, Lord Asher,” Tyrus said, looking over the sword in his hands appreciatively.

  Dunner glanced at the wall with a critical eye; after a moment of fruitless searching, he turned to Joseph.

  “Did you find the dimensions I gave you difficult?” he queried. Smiling, the smithy walked to a trunk and withdrew a wide, curved sheath with a sword already inside; he gave it to the delighted sea captain. “Ah!” Dunner exclaimed, happily; he slid the strange sword from its sheath in one, smooth movement. The blade’s shape curved upward like the quarter-phase moon. “I saw one like it in the Easterly lands, a long time ago; many thanks, lad. Bad luck for the barbarian who comes near me with this!”

  “Before you begin hunting down barbarians to try it out on—Captain Dunner—I recommend you try this ale,” Hezekiah said, sitting back down on his barrel. “It has a refreshing quality for the weary traveler.” The shorter man sheath the sword with a grin and sat down as well, accepting a mug of ale.

  “Many thanks,” Dunner said, after taking a deep drought. “Even by the coast,the air seems a mite dry to the throat this time of year. By the by, it isn’t ‘captain’ anymore; the boy here wasn’t the only one favored by the King.”

  “Ah! We are in the presence of an Admiral are we?” Hezekiah said, his grin broadening. “We must toast to your new office.” Hezekiah stood up and raised his mug of ale. “May the Southern breezes cease to tip o’er your fine vessels… and may the barnacles of good fortune attach themselves to your hull…”

  At this, Dunner let out an amused snort.

  “Then we’ve double the reason to swill the ale, brother,” he returned, moving to stand. “To the newly-appointed Marshal Walters… commander over all of the Southern Armies! May your men someday adhere to the standards I demand of mine…” Standing by his workbench, Joseph shook his head and smiled at the antics of his comrades.

  After removing his gray traveling cloak, Tyrus sat down by the other side of the table; he looked around the forge in silence for a few moments.

  “You have made this a hospitable workplace,” he said, finally. “Neatly kept and swept… but, what of your castle at Stone Mountain? Even if you preferred to sleep elsewhere, I hear your estate has a cottage.. better living quarters for a lord, than this place.”

  “And I hear that castle of his has holes in the roof the size of my mother, God rest her soul,” Dunner put in, reaching for the pitcher of ale once more. “It needs repairs, or so the villagers say. Must not be just idle gossip, seeing Lord Asher is relegated to bedding down in a smithy.”

  At this, Joseph walked over to the fires and stoked them up, filling the room with brighter light. As he wiped his hands on a rag, the young lord looked over his workbench at Tyrus; the captain of the Shamar regarded him keenly.

  “I doubt that mere concern over my drafty castle or my sleeping habits have brought you two days from the Capital,” Joseph stated, evenly. “What news?”

  “Two days ago…” Tyrus began, “We received word that two important men have simultaneously died.” The gray-eyed man sat still and straight as he spoke, his face set in a calm expression. The others’ demeanor grew serious as they listened. “The Archbishop of the Westerly province, a Bishop Haren, was apparently awaken by a viper latching onto his arm. The other unfortunate is one you may be acquainted with: Marshall Redson, commander of the Eastern armies.”

  Hezekiah looked surprised at hearing the marshal’s name mentioned but Tyrus continued. “He was riding towards his station at Fort Fehale from a winter ball when he…fell from his horse and died, according to the report.”
<
br />   “That is unfortunate news, but strange,” Hezekiah said, stroking his beard with one hand. “I knew Redson; an excellent horseman… one of the best. In his prime, as well; he was just a year older than I.”

  Nodding, Tyrus folded his hands on the table in front of him.

  “These are strange tiding indeed,” he continued, “Redson, though not a Shamar, was loyal to the King. Recently he was aiding our men at the Fehale Monastery in investigating a large number of reported disappearances in that area.”

  “Missing horses no doubt,” Dunner said, clearing his throat. “A lot of thieves around Fehale.”

  “Peasants, Dunner,” Tyrus corrected. “For months wives of farmers have reported their husbands missing after going to town. Among the missing are also vagabonds, laborers, tinkers and even traveling performers.”

  “The good marshall must have stumbled across something sinister in his province,” Hezekiah mused aloud.

  “We have yet to hear from the brothers at Fehale Monastery on the matter,” Tyrus replied. “When they send word, we must be ready to act upon their findings.”

  “Who succeeds the Marshall… and the Bishop?” Joseph asked, stepping closer.

  Tyrus looked as if he appreciated the question.

  “An interesting query, Lord Asher,” he said,narrowign his eyes a little. “To which I have no firm reply. We have only some small idea of how the priestly sect arrives at selecting a new archbishop. What information we have has led us to think the new candidate is a bishop from a nearby province. The four candidates are Bishops Dohkir, Sytel, Rubar and Ithykor.”

  “Rubar… I have met him,” Hezekiah said, leaning forward. “A trustworthy man; one of the few. He was trained as a monk and became a priest out of a desire to counsel senators.”

  “Show me a trustworthy priest and I’ll show you a monk!” Dunner said, with conviction. “Rubar is more monk than priest.”