In Service Of The King (Book 2)

by Steven Styles

  At the other side of the gate, Hezekiah paused at an inn; he looked at Joseph and Dunner.

  “We need to split into two groups,” he said, quietly. “One on each side of the street. I’ll go in and get accommodations for the night; the gate closes at sundown and we may be in this sector some time.” He disappeared into the Inn.

  Dunner turned towards the unit of five soldiers; he puffed his pipe a moment before speaking.

  “Well, which of y’ have children?” he asked. All the men raised their hands. Dunner snorted. “Alright, then… which of y’ are married?” Only one young man rose his hand. Dunner grinned and nodded at him. “You come with us,” he said. “The rest of y’ walk down this side of the street. See that you don’t fall behind.” The other four men nodded, looking uncertainly over the wooden bridge at the eastern sector. Joseph turned to the married soldier.

  “What is your name?” he asked, studying the young man’s face. The soldier did not seem rattled by the impending mission nor the surroundings.

  “Baith Arbeyl, sir,” he said. Joseph nodded at him.

  “Joseph Asher,” he returned, shaking the man’s hand. “That is quite a name…” The young man in front of him nodded.

  “Yes, my unit finds it a source of much amusement,” he stated. Dunner looked at Baith a moment.

  “Well, Baith, what bring you to the mission, other than morality?” Baith’s eyes twinkled with humor, though he did not smile.

  “I was a lad here, sir,” he said, evenly. “I was raised in the shadow of the cathedral. I know this sector well and most of the people in it.” Hezekiah joined them once more and the two groups walked across the bridge, heading down the filthy street into the eastern sector.

  In stark contrast to the rest of Angelo, no families walked the streets here. Behind filthy rags hung over doors and windows, they cowered in fear, hiding in their homes. Unsavory men hung about in groups around the burning garbage piles, darting glances every which way. Gaudily dressed women stood outside the inns, calling out to men as they walked by. Now and then the travelers were obliged to step over a drunken man, lying motionless in the gutter. Market stalls—selling wilted vegetables and stale bread—leaned against buildings here and there, the air around them a riot of voices. A few, ragged urchins ran here and there, begging coins as large rodents ran between the legs of citizens, feasting on the garbage.

  Most pitiful were the rail-thin children and aging people seated along the walls, begging for food. A few of them even cooked skewered rodents over the fires. Joseph had never seen so many; his brow grew dark at the sight.

  “These religious charlatans have much to answer for,” he said; his voice was low and ominous. Hezekiah glanced back at Lord Asher.

  “Without drawing attention, let us take out what food we have and give it,” he said, quietly. The others agreed silently; using tact they slipped small piece of food into the upturned hands of the hollow-eyed children and aging citizens. Some knowledge kept the people quiet as they received these small pieces of food; the grateful looks given, however, touched even Dunner’s tough and salty heart. The ever-present stach of sea-bisucutis emerged, and was givenout freely.

  As they walked, Joseph kept stride by Baith’s side behind Dunner and Hezekiah. He learned much of the area from the young soldier at his side as they traversed the sector.

  “Crime has ever tainted these streets,” Baith said, quietly, looking around him as he spoke. “In recent years it has become ovewhelming. I escaped—with my fmaily—when my son was born.”

  Joseph glanced into a dark alley. The skulking forms of mangy dogs met his gaze; from the shadows hungry eyes followed the men as they passed. As they walked onward, Baith began to expound.

  “The brigands have begun to war against one another,” the young soldier told him. “As if pitted agianst one another. The cathedral both mitigates and encouraged these quarrels.”

  “They apoint themselves to Moses’ seat,” Joseph murmured, more to himself than anyone. Hezekiah glanced over his shoulder at Joseph with a grin.

  “Correct,’ he said, quietly. “To the clergy, a house divided against itself is preferable.”

  A grimaced marred Joseph’s features.

  “Chaos—by its very nature—is unstable method of control,” he returned. Hezekiah shurgged.

  “The clergy has ever thrived on controversy. It is—at its vey core—oppsed to the notion of men communing directly with God.”

  Nodding, Joseph glanced sideways at Baith.

  “The snake always has a head,” he said. “Who leads these brigands?”

  “Hamaas,” the young solider answered, without a pause. Joseph nodded at him, as if encouraging batih to saw more. The man cleared his throat.

  “He is a ruthless killer…. most known for torturing his victims with fire.” Joseph absorbed this information in silence.

  The Kingdom group reached the cathedral plaza near noon, though the men found it difficult to find the sun; the brown skies above seemed to darken over the plaza. Chisled flagstone sat under their feet, inset with decorative granite, its pattern rotating around a large fountain in the center of the plaza. Over all towered the white marble cathedral, jutting up from the gound like a ornate throne at the far side of the plaza, its gleaming walls interspersed with large, colorful windows, its spired hung with fluttering crimson banners. A large crowd of sector dwellers gathered outside the steps of the cathedral.

  Market stalls lines the edges of the plaza, selling wares ot a few of the milling people. Within earshot of the plaza stood a low stone building. Men of unsavory appearance came and went from its dark door. A brightly painted sign hung from its lintel; it read ‘Saint’s Pub’. Seeing Joseph studying the building Baith nodded towards it.

  “Hamaas is oft there, at Saint’s,” he said, in a low voice. Dunner overheard this and looked towards the cathedral.

  On one side of the grand steps, a small platform had been built; the crimson-robed bishop could be easily seen on it, waving his arms in blessing over the large crowd below.

  “Beloved friends of Eastern Angelo…” the priest called out, loudly. “

  “This sermon is just beginning,” Dunner quipped, tapping out his pipe. “I’ll head into that saintly pub yonder, to see what I can see.” Hezekiah smiled, a little.

  “I shall remain here,” he said. “It has been awhile since I heard a priest’s sermon. It may do me good…”

  “I don’t share your enthusiasm,” Joseph told him, “I go with Dunnner.” Baith nodded as well.

  “Alright, lad,” Dunner said, repacking his pipe. Lighting it, the older man strode up to the pub and disappeared inside. Joseph waited a moment and followed, Baith close behind.

  The pub’s interior proved ill-lit and dank with smoke; the dim light was a blessing, however, hiding the unsettling sights within. Dunner strode in, puffing his pipe as he made his way to the counter. Joseph and Baith slipped in, stepping to one side of the entrance. A long counter ran across the far side of the room; tables and benches filled the rest of the space. Joseph glanced at the men standing and drinking at the bar, counting heads; the room was full, save for one, empty table.

  All around the room men sat drinking or throwing dice and talking. As Dunner neared the counter, the bartender looked up from a grimy cask.

  “We’re full!” he snarled at the newcomer. Dunner appeared unfazed.

  “One ale, barkeeper,” he said gruffly. “And in spite of this poor greeting, the pirests words have tickled my ears, and I’m determined ot buy all in this room refreshment!” With this Dunner tossed two silver coins at the counter. The bartender hurriedly picked it up and signaled to two of his servers.

  A few men at a table nearby murmured approingly at the gesture. Taking his ale, Dunner made his way back to the empty table by the door; drawing out the bench he sat down resolutely and took a drink of the frothy brew.

  Standing partly in the shadows, Joseph and Baith silently watched; a few wisps of
low conversations fell on Joseph’s ear from a nearby table.

  “He’s the look of a sailor, I reckon,” a grizzled man remarked, quietly.

  “I’ve not seen him b’fore.”

  “He’s not from ‘round ‘ere,” replied a wiry brigand, seated next to him. “No one sits at Hamaas’ table…”

  “Aye…” said another; the man scratched his greasy beard as he squinted at Dunner. The aging sailor sat as if he owned the pub, puffing his pipe.

  “Dibs on the pipe, when Hamaas is thorugh with him Might be worth something.”

  “They’ll take his silver, if he’s any left,” said the first man.

  “I lay claim to the cloak.”

  “You won’t beneedin’ it,” a red-haired man ahazarded. “Tis hot as blazes in the caverns.”

  “Not anymore. Hamaas runs ‘em better than when the bishop was in charge.” The men kept their glares fixed on Dunner as he slowly drank his ale.

  The open doorway of the inn darkened; a large, burly man of middle age with cold, black eyes stepped in.

  “Hamaas,” one of the men—at the table near Joseph—whispered, reverently. Joseph surreptitiously glanced around, observing who was carrying weapons. The man’s cold glare glanced around the room, and then fixed itself on Dunner; the aging soldier watched the newcomer from the corner of his eye, taking another drink of ale.

  With one step, the bandit captain stood by Dunner’s table. Joseph took his stance; the sleeves of his dyed shirt were rolled up, revealing hands and forarms scarred by fire. Hamaas towered above Dunner’s seated form.

  “Stranger,” The man’s voice boomed. “No one sits at my table.”

  Dunner regarded this upstart with calm eyes, puffing smoke from his pipe.

  “I don’t see your seal upon it, lad,” the old sailor replied. “‘Tis but a table. I’m but a old sailor, resting my weary bones. He emptied the pint, his eyes never leaving the newcomer’s face. The man’s black eyes glazed over with anger. Beneath his cloak, Joseph’s fingers curled around the hilt of his sword.

  “Get up.. or I’ll watch your old head roll,” Hamaas warned; his voice caried almost no inflection.

  “Before my aged head leaves its rightful place on my shoulders,” Dunner said, rising to stand. “I would know your name.”

  “I am Hamaas,” the man returned; the black eyes narrowed into slits.

  “A bastard’s name,” Dunner said. “No good name would name his son after violence.”

  Wrath rose up in the black-eyed man’s face.

  “Take this old sea dog out back,” he ordered, aside to his men. “And bring me his head in a bag. I’ll find a tall pike to mount it on.”

  Two men beside Hamaas drew long blades from their scabbards and pointed them at Dunner. Just briefly, the aging sailor glanced at Joseph, barely visible in the shadows; the younger man shook his head, slightly. Snorting, Dunner allowed himself to be prodded towards the back of the room, to a door by the counter. While all eyes were on those three, Joseph and Baith slipped out the pub entrance, melting into the milling people outside.

  Resounding over the plaza, the bishop’s sermon seemed ot be reacihg its creshendo.

  “How many we have lost to starvation and sickness!” he called out. “But, no gentle citizen, they have found no rest! They cry out from their cold graves to us, even now. The power to aid them lies with you, alone! The power of belief is yours! To move them from the misery of purgatory into Blessings!”

  As he paused for breath, crimson-clad attendents—next to the bishop—uncomvered large baskets.They each drew out a loaf of stale bread tossed it out into the crowd. The hungry masses pressed forward, tearing and scrabbling for the food. Armed guardskept anyone from coming up towardshte bishop and his attendent.

  “In the past you have been powerless, held down by the weight of archaeic oracles and royal covenants. What do they offer you? Toil but we give you respite. They fofer you hungeer, but wegive you bread!”

  The attendents brought out more bread and tossed it over the heads of the crowd.

  “They say obedience… we say love!” The crowd cheered in approval. The bishop held up his hand for silence. “They say honor…. we say that the citizens fo easern angelo must be heard!” The crowd roared. “They say many for the benefit of one…btu we say one for the benefit of the masses… and they they say serve one king, but we say you are all kings!”

  A deafening racket resounded inthe plaza.

  “Rise up!” the bishop yelled above the many voices, his fist balled up into the air. “Rise up o’ poverty-stricken throngs of men abused by the rich! Engage the enemy! Take back what you have lost from the tyrant! Disavow the falshoods fed to you the uncaring monarch!” Stirred by the priest’s words, the crowd murmured loudly; angry voices rose.

  “We’ll have the king’s head on a platter!” one man yelled out above the crowd.

  “Bless you my son…” the bishop said, waving his hand at the man.

  Joseph gained Hezekiah’s side, on the ouskirts of the crowd. The older man glared at the bishop with undisguised disgust.

  “Our brother needs aid,” Joseph told him, looking back toward the pub. Hezekiah did not seemed surprised by this statement; he nodded at his men. They threaded their way back towards the pub as the crowd cheered the bishop on behind them.

  Small rodents scattered as the pub’s back door swung open. Dunner stepped through, two blades at his back. To stall for time, he began swaying and stumbling, cursing in slurred speech; yelling, he flailed his arms about so the two bandits could not fully get hold of him.

  “Aw, he’s knackered…” one of the men spat. “Go get Hamaas before the geezer pisses on himself.” His fellow man opened the door and yelled for his boss. Around the corner of the pub, the group of seven Kingsmen paused, listeing to the commotion to alley. Hamaas appeared at the door, a pint in his hand. Seeing Dunner sway and shout around the small alley, he glared at his men.

  “Why do I pay you?!” he screamed, flinging the pint at one of them. “Must I do your killing now for you! I’ve half a mind to send you down to the caves. You can crawl in the muck with the slaves!” The men paled at this and made an attempt to grab Dunner as he lurched by.

  “Unhand the man,” came a strong, clear voice.

  The three brigands looked up to see seven cloaked men standing in the alley, their faces obscured by hoods. Hamaas peered at them narrowly.

  “Who makes demands of me?” the brigand snarled, his black eyes flashing.

  “This man serves the Bishop,” Joseph said from within his hood. “I bring you word from Sytel.” At this Hamaas’s face altered; he stepped back from Dunner, his brow drawn.

  “The bishop never sends his men here…” he said, slowly. “I take orders only from the cathedral…” He took a step towards the group; suspicion filled his eyes. “The master sent you all the way from Moronai?”

  A choking sound behind Hamaas made him turn, sharply. Both of his men lay on the ground; their throats were cut. Dunner stood between them, wiping his bloody dagger on a cloth.

  “You are Kingsmen!” Hamaas snarled, pulling a long, glinting dagger from his belt. Hate glittered in the bandit’s cruel eyes. “You serve that oppressive tyrant!”

  “Shut your mouth,” Dunner said, ominously; the aging sailor’s eyes looked hard with anger. “You are not worthy to speak of the King!” Hamaas’s mouth twisted into a malicious grin.

  “I’ll burn each of you…” he said, gleefully. “I’ll find your families and take pleasure watching them burn in their homes. Your king will not save you! Soon, his rule will be overthrown!”

  At this, Dunner drew out his curved sword, sweeping it up in a practiced, deadly blow. Hamaas’s head rolled from his shoulders and joined his dead men on the ground. Stepping over the bodies, Joseph dragged a heavy barrel in front of the back door.

  “I believe we may safely abandon the idea of keeping a low appearance,” Hezekiah said, stepping away from a small stream of
blood trickling down the alley. Dunner wiped off the curved blade of the scimitar, his face a picture of distaste; the aging sailor glanced down at the headless corpse of Hamaas.

  “He’s much more the pleasant man with his head off,” Dunner remarked, more to himself than anyone.

  “We must leave this place,” Joseph said, seriously. “This area of the city is about to be thrown into anarchy.”

  “You are right, sir,” Baith stated. “Once Hamaas is discovered to be dead, all the bands will be fighting for power. Any citizens should flee this place at once.”

  Hezekiah looked around, drawing a parcel from his tunic. A wooden crate stood nearby; kneeling down by it, he took out a piece of parchment and took out a small, corked inkwell. Tearing the parchment in two equal pieces, he wrote swiftly and spoke of what he wrote as he did so.

  “These are orders to my second in command, to immediately dispatch 10,000 soldiers from my southern army to the easterly sector… to quell the uprising.”

  “Uprising, sir?” one of the other soldiers queried, looking around. Hezekiah did not look up from his task.

  “Riots will break out before dark,” the man said. “Of that I am certain. The second order is to dispatch another 5,000 soldiers to surround Fortress Moronai, specifically to let none in, or out.”

  Standing, he corked the inkwell and folded the messages; Joseph lit a torch with his flint; Hezekiah softened a stick of wax over it and sealed both orders, pressing his Shamar signet ring into the wax. Turning to two of the soldiers, he fixed each of them with a stern glare.

  “The four of you will run with haste to the city wall,” he told them. “Do not stop, not for anything. Deliver these to the fort and stress they be delivered at once, by order of Marshal Walters.” The men nodded, and slipped out of the alley, looking stealthily around before venturing out into the plaza.

  Once they’d gone, Hezekiah let out a long breath.

  “This sector will erupt within the hour,” he said, blinking.

  Joseph looked at the bodies, then at the back door of the pub. So far none had tried to force it.