Instead, he was intent on the summons and what the king would ask of him.
Of letters and sums he had little knowledge of, and it was a constant quarry between him and his father. It was principally why he lost his inheritance, though he waved the thought away, not wanting to think on it.
Whatever request awaited him, he knew the king would not send him as a dignitary or envoy to the lands beyond the western stretches of Trecht, or to the doors of the theocracy or imperium.
The king’s wishes were a mystery to him, but he would serve, whatever was asked of him.
“Is this the Baccan boy?” a soft, eloquent voice asked.
The knight halted, pointing to Daniel. A lanky man dressed in a black doublet and trousers looked Daniel up and down.
“Aye, see him in,” the knight replied. “No escort. ‘Tis not needed.”
The lanky man nodded his head and pushed open the great doors of the throne room, beckoning Daniel in. He found himself in a short hall with a great map of the Eastern Lands upon the marble floor. West of Trank were lush green lands, endless forests, and small mountain ranges further south. He did not know the names of the towns and cities further west, but his father had visited them often, seeing to affairs of state. Eastward, past the seas, were the rolling grasslands of Dalia, the mountainous wastelands of Isilia, and a collection of islands home to smugglers, pirates, and reavers.
Raising his head suddenly, Daniel noticed the lanky man was not following. He pushed open the far doors, entering the Lion Throne.
The chambers wide and tall. Pillars stretched to the sides, supporting the balconies that rang around the throne. Banners hung from every corner of the chamber, the great lion looking down in judgment. A rich red carpet ran to the steps of the Lion Throne—t’was gold and ornate, towering, carved in the likeness of a lion.
Though the king did not sit upon the throne.
Upon the top steps sat an old, bent, and frail man in long robes. Daniel thought the man was asleep, but he could not wait, not this morning. “My lord,” he said at once. The old man did not stir. “My lord!” he repeated.
The old man put a bony hand on top of his head, scratching it. “Yes, and you are?”
The most difficult task was keeping his composure. “Daniel Baccan.”
“Ah yes, Lord Devan’s eldest,” the old man said, standing up. He carefully walked down the steps, clutching a wrapped parchment in his left hand. “I have been expecting you, boy.”
Daniel inclined his head slightly, showing respect. “Will the king be joining us anon?”
The old man seemed to laugh, but it sounded more like a croak. “King Marcus? To see you? A boy who was stripped of lordship? You may carry the Baccan name, boy, but you are not worthy of the king’s time. You must serve your king and earn your place. Perhaps then the king will honour you, but not before.”
Daniel felt his heart sink. This was not what he expected. “And who are you, my lord?” He knew it came across as impudent but did not care.
“You speak like a high born, though your words have a commoner’s stench. You would do well in the king’s service if you showed more respect.”
“My lord.”
The old man waved a dismissive hand. “I am Lord Theadric Rammel, our good king’s lord chamberlain. Not that you need to know this, but Lord Devan warned the crown that you are an uncouth lad, prone to outbursts. Your lord father could not curb your quarrelsome behaviour, but mayhap service will.”
“I am at the king’s command,” Daniel intoned, though he only wanted to leave the throne room.
“That is well—for the king’s orders are law,” Lord Theadric said, handing the parchment over. As he did so, four tall, strong knights in gilded green and gold armour came from behind the throne, hands upon the hilts of their swords. “These good sers will see you a ship appointed by the king for your use. Serve well and return at the appointed time. Anything less, and you will not set foot on these lands again.”
“My father—”
“These are the words of the king, not your father. Obey or be shackled in the dungeons for the rest of your besotten life.”
Daniel nodded his head, turned, and walked between the four knights. He opened the parchment, writ by the royal hand of King Marcus Marcanas, impressed with the king’s own seal. It read: To learn and weaken, to subjugate and deceive. A day will come when our knights will descend. When they do, you will be rewarded for leal service.
“What a sot your father was!” Damian exclaimed, slamming his mug down. The man was grinning ear to ear. “We are going to have to harden you, boy. Make a man out of you. I will not have that weak boy amongst my crew.”
Daniel slumped back in his chair, wondering why he shared the story from three seasons past. The dingy tavern in southern Dale was near full. The servants scuttled from table to table. None of the patrons had taken notice of him during his story, much as it was after. Agreeing to Damian’s farfetched plan had not stirred the slightest of interest. Small bloody mercies. ‘Tis madness in itself. Better that fewer know of this.
“You ever have a woman, boy? Did your oh so noble father give you coin for whores?”
Emily. Damian had stirred memories of the only girl Daniel ever cared for. The girl that his father thought he was too good for—who turned her into a whore to prove a point. Yes, I had a woman, but I will not open to you, Damian, or anyone else.
“As I thought, you have not my friend, we will have to change that!” Damian declared.
“I have, not that it is any of your concern,” Daniel rebuked. “What you need to know, Damian, is that I know my father and the king would keep me from my home the rest of days, all in the name of service. These lands are my home now, war-torn as they are. I am no fool. The imperium and theocracy will always be at each other’s throats. It may be that I would be on the side that holds dominion.”
A wide smile crept across Damian’s face. He grabbed at the skirt of a passing serving girl, demanding another pitcher of ale. The girl smiled slightly before skittering away. “Aye, you will do just fine.”
There was still so much more Daniel wanted to know. “How do you propose to do it?”
“It?” Damian asked. “In front of this lot? I would not deliver trade secrets into the hands of this rabble. Heh, none of those pious shites would ever wander this far south. Too much scum to stain their precious white silks. Yet I would rather fuck myself with a sword than lay it bear.”
“That can be arranged, you bastard.”
Four men stood by the table, garbed in boiled leather and chain mail. Their armour was a dirty, rugged brown, and their cloaks were black as pitch. Every one of them had scarred faces. The man who had spoken had a broken nose. They all looked down at Damian.
“Shall we go to my chambers?” Damian asked, smiling. “We can all fuck ourselves with steel.”
“You will answer for what you have done, cur!” The lead man shouted, punching Damian in the face. The other three drew swords. Daniel watched as Damian sat back upright, spitting out blood. Tavern patrons slammed down coin upon their tables, muttering curses before exiting. The serving girls wailed, hiding behind the bar. The bartender kept cleaning out pewter mugs, watching.
“Who have I wronged, you little shite?” Damian growled.
“The noble’s get has a foul tongue,” the lead man said. He took out a short-hilted dagger, pointing the blade at Damian. “I do not think you would say much of value. Shall I rip it out and spare the realm your lies?”
“Is that your prick?” Damian guffawed. “If you meant to use that, you would not have felt anything at all.”
“This is not a game, Damian Dannars!”
“I do not play games.”
The man growled, thrusting the dagger forth. Damian moved slightly to his left, then slammed down on the man’s wrist, seizing the falling dagger, and throwing it into the man’s throat.
Daniel bowled over the other three men, drawing his sword while they squ
irmed about. Regaining their feet, the men looked at him and Damian, who had his own steel out.
“Whatever your quarry with Damian, you will leave now,” Daniel declared, still not quite sure what he was doing. “One man’s blood is enough.”
“You must lose your western charms, dear Daniel,” Damian scoffed. “One man is as guilty as the other. I will see their blood run.”
The men seemed to be mutes, spreading out and knocking over tables, their steel out stretched.
“They would not have had peace,” Damian said, shrugging his shoulders.
Two of the swordsmen fell upon Damian. Daniel locked steel with the other. The man was of like height, and he felt his own steel being pushed back towards him. He was losing his feet. Instinctively, he moved to his side, swinging wildly, but he only met the man’s steel.
“Your master-at-arms trained you well,” Daniel grunted.
“Master-at-arms? Should have known you were like that bastard. You think every man who wields steel was born in some castle or manor? Noble pricks like you will never learn.”
The man suddenly backed off, before swinging his steel. Daniel met the cut, pushing forward and bringing his own steel down. The man parried, driving Daniel back; he tripped but held his steel up. His foe pushed down hard.
“Is that all you got, you well born shite?”
Daniel felt his foe’s blade press closer to his skin. He could taste the sharp edge of the blade. The man’s face was intense, sweat dripping down. Daniel wanted to summon the strength to move, but he could not find it. All those years training. To end my life in a tavern—
The man tumbled off Daniel in a heap. The swordsman rose to a knee, but Damian put a sword through his skull. “You could not handle this shit?”
Ignoring the comment, Daniel rose to his feet. He saw the puddles of blood beneath the broken bodies of the men who challenged Damian. Their complexions were dark, faces scarred; they could have been from anywhere.
Daniel shook his head and looked to his newly acquainted friend, half in shock, half in wonder. “How did you … how did you fight off two men?”
“I am not a weak pissant, Daniel. You will learn that in time.”
Daniel did not accept that readily. There was something else beneath the surface, he knew. Whatever came next, he wanted to look into Damian’s past, and find out exactly who he was in bed with.
“Y-you! T-to shed blood here! The Order of Light will see to you, see that it does not.”
The big, burly bartender trembled at the bar, sticking an accusing finger at Damian, though he looked half a ghost.
“I spit on the order,” Damian scoffed, walking towards the bar. “You would too if you knew what was good for you.”
“S-stand back! Or I will, I will— ”
“You will do what?” Damian scoffed. “You could smash a bottle against the bar, if you had any wits about you. Would not do much ‘gainst my blade, but you are too cowardly to do that. Heh, shall I slay a Dalian too? Leave a message for your precious Order of Light?”
“Damian,” Daniel said suddenly, putting a hand on Damian’s shoulder. It felt foolish. “We need to leave. Now.”
“Heh, I do hope blood does not make you tremble, too. Pity if I wasted my time.”
“Damian.”
“Take your hand off me woman!” Damian roared. Daniel obeyed. “Follow me.”
Daniel followed Damian into the night. The streets were quiet, but they were not empty. It was faint, but towards the north were lit brands, the flames growing brighter. “Damian, the north.”
“Tch, I see them,” Damian replied. “South then east. Do not be a laggard.”
Daniel wove in between houses and down alleys. He heard men and women murmur as they darted past, and candles were lit within homes. Some stuck their heads out, shouting. He did not need to turn his head to know that all of Dale was pointing towards him.
More alleys and side streets came and went. The lanterns above seemed like guiding stars to the men and women who chased them—he felt it must be the Order of Light, but he did not know for sure—but he ignored it the best he could.
A market square opened, and Damian halted, seemingly searching his memory for where to go. The clop of hooves echoed across the air. “Fast, Damian. They are on horseback!”
“East, between the stalls!”
Daniel took off after Damian, not daring to look back, though the clop of hooves were louder and footfalls accompanied them. Every sound became a cacophony: the stirrings within buildings, his own heart beats, and the pursuit behind.
Then Damian froze.
There was a low wall no higher than three feet. Damian climbed over it. “There is a ladder here. A natural ladder. They will be too bulky to follow.” He descended quickly.
Daniel put one leg over the low wall, then another. He kneeled close to where Damian descended, and felt with his lower left foot for the first rung. Thinking it was right, he put his other foot down. It was solid, or so it seemed; he was not sure. Then, lowering a foot again, he found another of its kind. Slowly he moved down, descending the cliff.
“You got some boldness in you after all!” Damian shouted from below. “My galley is below. My men know to cast off when we return. Do not lose your footing. If I am alive after the tumble, you can be sure I will cut your prick off!”
Daniel ignored the threat. Focusing on the rungs, he descended further and further. He stared at the rock the whole time, not daring to look down. Until—
“They went down the cliff!”
Looking up, he saw a knight on horseback, his neck craning over the low wall. There was some shuffling of feet as guards in chain and boiled leather gathered around, talking in murmurs.
None made to descend.
“Dalian cowards!” Damian screamed from below. “All is well, Daniel. Did I not tell you so? All is well.”
All is well indeed, Damian.
Feeling solid ground beneath his feet, Daniel looked up to the cliff. He thought it was no more than fifty feet, and while there was no sign of their pursuers, the shadows could have hidden much.
Turning, he saw Damian’s galley rock against the shore, the gangplank extended. There were three masts, though the centre was tallest by far, and the sails were black as pitch. A single black stripe stretched around the hull.
On deck, Damian’s crew pulled at the rigging and drew sails. “Trey!” Damian shouted. “We are no longer welcome. Set us off.”
“Aye, captain!” Came a reply, but from where, Daniel did not know.
He went to the port side rail and leaned over, looking at the dark waters as the galley pulled out. He did not fear pursuit, not any longer. I am a traitor now, or will be soon enough. I have failed in my charge these three seasons past, and I do not think I could escape Damian’s company, even if I wanted to. I think I want to stay, but—
“Pious shites, huh?” Damian said suddenly, standing beside him. “I never had such trouble with them before, but all men change, it is useless to deny it.”
“Who were they?” Daniel asked. “The men who attacked us. They were angry with you.”
Damian laughed, patting Daniel on the back. “You will soon learn there are few men who are not angry with me. Not so the women. They worship my member or I make mutes of ‘em. They are not good for much else.”
“Yet the Voice still sings, as she will for many years after.”
Daniel turned quickly, searching for the voice that he did not recognize. Near the centre mast was a knight in gilded plate. His sword was sheathed and he did not reach for it. Daniel grasped the hilt of his own sword, but Damian waved him away.
“Lord Protector Ser Johnathan Falenir,” Damian declared. “I did not think you would be a stowaway, on my ship no less. Seems you forgot the hiding part. I will forgive it, if you leap over the side.”
“I am not alone,” the knight intoned.
A dozen knights emerged from the lower decks with swords drawn. Damian’s crew backed
away from them, and a tall and well-dressed crewman approached Damian. “Captain, they came at us unawares. We fought. A few we lost. No more.”
“Craven!” Damian screeched, striking the crewman square in the jaw. “I taught you better Trey. Bested by the order. I should have your hide.”
“Do settle your anger, Damian,” Ser Johnathan said sternly. “I only wish to talk—alone, if it please you.”
“You Dalians and your fucking formality. Think I will not tell my men your words? Even useless shites like Trey? Speak your words, you white bastard.”
“Alone, Damian, or I will soon see if your men are as skilled with sword in hand as you are.”
“Bah! As you wish, but he will attend me.” Damian pointed to Daniel. “Or the only speech will be with steel, even if you must swim home through our blood.”
The knight looked at Daniel sternly. “Who are you, boy? I will not speak to a man whose name I do not know.”
“Daniel Baccan, ser.”
“I do see how the two of you get along so well,” the knight replied, smirking. “’Tis a shame for the kingdom that sons of its noblest houses bring themselves to piracy, smuggling, and whatever else you do—not that I care to know. Very well, but this affair concerns you, Damian.”
“To my cabin then,” Damian spit. “Watch these knights, Trey. I trust that you can do at least that?”
The crewman nodded his head slightly as Damian walked past.
Daniel followed to the rear of a galley, descending a ladder into a small cabin. There was a wide wooden bed on the near wall, a long maple desk near a small round window, and all sorts of weaponry and armour scattered upon the floor.
Damian sat in a chair behind the desk, reached down, and corked open a bottle of whiskey, drinking straight from the bottle. “I will not tolerate you sober, accursed knight.”
Daniel stood to Damian’s side, and Ser Johnathan stood with his hands clasped behind his back, declining a drink when it was offered.
The Prelude to Darkness Page 23