Sins of a Sovereignty (Amernia Fallen Book 1)

by Plague Jack

  “Your grandmother is a clever woman.”

  “She’s also scared of you.”

  “Good,” said the Blood Queen. “And you should be scared as well.”

  The little girl shook her head. “You don’t scare me.”

  Innocence can border on stupidity. Someone needs to drive the naiveté from her, thought Minerva before asking, “Why not? You should be.”

  “My daddy said you were a good person. He said you’d protect us.”

  Something inside the Queen churned. It’s been so long since I’ve seen Eric, the poor sickling has no idea. “You should never assume someone will help you. And didn’t I tell you to be quiet?”

  Joseline ignored Minerva. “Grandpa is mean, but Gesskara’s evil. He must be if he scares Grandpa. If you don’t want to give me to them, you must be good.”

  She ignores commands, just like I did, until I started giving them. And she understands when she’s met an ally. Perhaps she’s not as naive as I thought. “And how do you know the Gesskara’s evil? Did your grandmother tell you about him?”

  The girl shook her head. “I met him once. He visited the castle to meet me. His eyes were balls of fire and his skin was hot like liquid iron. I was scared, but Grandpa said I have to marry him or else many more people will die.” The little girl frowned. “I don’t want people to die, but I don’t want to marry him either.”

  A door creaked as Bridget Van Cann hobbled out on a cane. The regally decorated woman from earlier was gone. Bridget had scrubbed her face of powder and changed into a commoner’s garb. “How far away is the palace?” asked Van Cann. “I’m not sure how far I’ll be able to walk.”

  “Quite a ways. It would be best if I had Shrike order us a carriage,” said Minerva, turning to lead her family up the ship’s stairs. As she did, Sir Richard and Sir Ballister took posts by the door to the deck. “Non-royal Vaetorians are to remain here for processing,” Minerva ordered.

  “But we are sworn to protect Her Highness!” objected a Vaetorian loyal with a red mustache.

  “And you’ll be able to do just that after you’re processed,” said the Blood Queen. “If you want to see a Van Cann again you’re going to have to obey me first.”

  The loyal with the red mustache gritted his teeth as Sir Ballister and Sir Richard gripped their swords, ready for battle. “Calm yourself, Sir Reginald,” said the soft voice of Bridget Van Cann. “Our fates are in her hands now.”

  “That’s just what I’m afraid of,” Minerva heard the guard grumble as her Queensguard escorted them up the stairs. Sir Ballister went up first, followed by Minerva and then Joseline. Sir Richard slowly kept pace behind Van Cann as she crept up the stairs at a snail’s pace.

  Shrike was perched on the edge of the boat’s railing, smoking a pipe as if nothing of any consequence was going on around him. “Did you and Mommy have a good visit?” asked the dwarf.

  “Shut up, Shrike, and see to it that a carriage to the palace is ordered. Van Cann cannot make the walk.”

  “As you wish,” said the dwarf as he let loose three piercing whistles. “Carriage ordered.”

  “Wow!” exclaimed an excited Joseline. “Is this Voskeer? It’s much nicer than Typhonhold!” The little girl looked at Shrike, perplexed. “That’s a very tiny man. Why is he so small?”

  “Yeah,” said Shrike with a shrug. “And you look like a very tiny boy.”

  “I’m not a boy!” said Joseline, indignant rage swirling across the little girl’s face. She was quickly distracted as her grandmother finally made it up the stairs. For the first time in ten years Minerva saw her mother happy. “It’s is good to see land again,” said the old woman as she gazed upward towards Voskeer’s copper spires.

  The crossbow bolt cut off a lock of Minerva’s hair as it flew by her head and embedded itself deep above Bridget Van Cann’s heart. The bolt had been fired by a child in a red hat and he was winding another bolt into his crossbow. There was the patter of light feet as children swarmed the deck, daggers in hand. Faelings, thought Minerva as Shrike hopped from the railing and pushed Minerva to the ground.

  “Grandma!” shrieked Joseline, running to her grandmother, whose face turned ghost-white as blood spurted from her arrow wound. The Queensguard drew their weapons and formed a wall to block the faelings from entering the boat.

  This is ridiculous. Does the Wild Hunt really think that a few faelings are going to be enough? thought the Blood Queen as she unfurled the volcanite steel mace stashed behind her apron. Joseline continued to scream, and the Queen’s eyes widened as she realized just how many attacking faelings there were.

  The practice of doctoring faelings to appear human had given the attackers an element of surprise. Those that clambered over the ship’s far side were undoctored, giving them a devilish, almost demonoid appearance. They were slick with seawater as they climbed over the ship’s railing, eyes wide and mad with hate and rage. Minerva could hear her blood pumping as one of the faelings wrapped its arms and legs around Sir Ballister’s throat, tearing and chewing. Sir Ballister screamed and fell back into the water with a red splash. Ordinarily the faelings would have been no match for the Queensguard, but their lack of armor made the men vulnerable. And the faelings had what the guardsmen didn’t—numbers.

  “For the Wild Hunt,” screamed a faeling girl, her claws poking through her fingertips as she rushed towards Minerva. In a flash of steel, Sir Richard’s sword turned the faeling girl’s arms to bloody stumps.

  “Subhuman filth!” shouted Sir Richard, hacking furiously at anything childlike within his vision until his sword was spattered red.

  Shrike had taken a defensive position over Van Cann, who muttered unintelligibly as she bled. Always has his eyes on the prize that one, thought the Queen as Shrike buried a hatchet in a faeling’s head while Joseline shrieked and ran behind him. One of Minerva’s guards bumped into her as he fell back, three doctored faelings stabbing him over and over again with their serrated blades. Minerva was knocked to the floor, and her face hit the deck as she fell. Below deck the Vaetorian guards fought for their lives, and their muffled screams reverberated through the floor.

  A pair of faelings leapt past Minerva’s remaining men and scrambled through the blood towards Minerva. Little hands wrapped around the Queen’s soft white wrists. Sensing their hostility, the rubies in her choker flashed bright, setting the faelings aflame. They convulsed and writhed on the deck as the fire consumed them, its heat burning the blood on the deck black as tar. Their screams ceased, though they continued to writhe as fire consumed their flesh. Arrows flew from nowhere as Shrike’s snipers picked off the last of the faelings, who had begun to flee.

  Minerva’s remaining bodyguards dealt with the gathered crowd of city guards and horrified citizens as the Queen stood and walked towards a half-disemboweled faeling. He was one of the doctored ones, identical to a human child. A softer woman may have been moved, but Minerva had no such weaknesses. “You’ve made a big mistake today. Tell me where the Wild Hunt is hiding and I’ll end it all for you.” He ignored Minerva and instead lay on elbows and knees as he heaved and gasped. “Answer me!” yelled the Queen as she kicked the faeling hard in the gaping hole where his entrails slopped from his belly.

  The poor thing wheezed in pain as he fell to his side.

  “The elves took us from the wild and uplifted us for war,” coughed the dying man. “The humans hate us, except when they get to fuck us. You sit in your gilded cage and offer my kind nothing.”

  “Where is the Wild Hunt?” asked the Queen, covered in blood. “Tell me who their leader is. Tell me!”

  “The Wild Hunt burns in the hearts of those you have scorned,” said the child-man as blood poured down his chin. “Our leader is a great man, a strong man. He will lead the hunt”—the faeling raised a shaky finger to point at Minerva—“and he will kill his prey. The Huntsman will come for your soul, and the souls of your followers. One by one you will fall. One. By. One,” gasped the dying faeling as t
he deck fell silent.

  Chapter 4

  Always obey your father,

  Just like the Shrike says.

  Always obey your mother,

  Or he’ll catch you in your beds.

  Always be polite,

  Or he’ll run you through and through.

  And always stay in at night,

  Or he’ll be after you.—Amernian nursery rhyme

  Three days had passed since the Wild Hunt had attempted to kill Minerva Roselock but had instead wounded Bridget Van Cann. Shrike’s mood had rarely been worse as he had paced the length of his office, a large columned room whose the walls were lined with shelves packed with tomes from every continent of Archipelago. Pacing was something Shrike rarely did, a neuroticism saved for those times in which he was powerless to fix an unfortunate situation.

  Shrike had been one of a select few subhumans trusted enough to continue serving Amernia after the Green War. He was, after all, the man famous for killing Darius the Usurper. Shrike had made himself invaluable to Amernia by serving as its postwar spymaster. The Jester House Courier Company had been founded by Shrike, or rather Harper O’Connor. Harper O’Connor was a respectable and occasionally troublesome businessman, while Shrike was—allegedly—the Queen’s fearless and ruthless pet ghost. Shrike was something of a bogeyman in Voskeer, and parents would tell their children, “Do your chores or Shrike will know and he’ll impale you in your sleep.” The Shrike myth was one Harper O’Connor was happy to encourage.

  The Jester House Courier Company served as Amernia’s only mail service, publisher, and printing house. There were stations in every city in Amernia and every capital city of every country in Archipelago. Shrike ran his business as half legitimate company, and half intelligence-gathering organization. Incoming mail of valuable clients was searched and read through by Shrike’s trusted and well-paid agents. Anything of note would be encoded and smuggled back to Voskeer. Through patience, and smart business practice, O’Connor had information on everybody who was anybody. Unfortunately for Shrike, his worth to the Blood Queen had all but worn out. Shrike’s failure to anticipate and prevent the assassination attempt had put him on very thin ice. Bridget Van Cann still lived, luckily. Although her condition was dire, her heart still beat.

  I could fake my death. An extreme dose of nightshade mixed with Keonobian puffer fish venom could do the trick, thought Shrike. No, no—there’s no way the Queen bitch wouldn’t expect that. Shrike had ordered his best and most trusted agents to patrol the rooftops around the Jester House Courier Company’s headquarters. All he could do was wait and hope that Van Cann’s condition improved.

  There was a tapping on the large arched window, loud enough to be heard over the rain which beat and drummed on the glass. Finally, thought Shrike as he lifted a hooked latch to open a window frame and let in the drenched and shivering sprite. Sprites, although technically related to elfkin, had little of the intelligence of their brethren. It would be insulting to sentience to claim that sprites bore anything close to intellect. The Jester House Courier Company had done some research and found out that sprites had a keen sense of navigation. This, and the creature’s fondness for the drug absinthe, had made them ideal couriers for sensitive information.

  The little fairy fluttered about before collapsing in an exhausted heap on the window ledge. Shrike unraveled its note, soggy with rainwater, and spilt a puddle of absinthe on the window ledge. The fairy bent on its knees and lapped up the green liquid like a dog. Being careful not to tear the soggy paper, Shrike read the letter.

  Friend, it began. You have been betrayed. Your agents are no longer yours, and they are on their way to arrest you now. You have been blamed for the faeling attack, and the Queen has ordered your execution. Good luck.

  “Good luck?” said Shrike aloud. “Good luck?” he shouted at the sprite who stared back with big blank eyes. It’s not signed, he thought as he inspected the letter. It could have been sent by anyone. Could be a trap set by the Queen to drive me out into the open. Or it could be my only chance at survival. Better to die on the run than be put down like a caged animal, he decided. He donned his leather coat and tucked his hatchets into the fur lining. I always knew this would happen. That’s how the spy game works. There are no retirements for our kind. Shrike was forty, and not faking his own death earlier was something he was heavily regretting. Should have escaped to an island in Keonan while things were calm.

  Shrike pulled three books off a corner shelf seemingly at random, and it spun around. On the other side were bins full of intercepted letters and files on every leader in Archipelago. Shrike stood before his life’s work, and yet as he dumped the last of the documents into his fireplace he couldn’t help but smile. A final “fuck you” to my successor, he thought as the flames curled and blackened the parchment. There’s enough dirt here to start a world war. It’s a pity that they won’t find out I’ve destroyed my files until after I’m dead, thought Shrike as he poured a bucket of water onto the flames and spun the hidden bookshelf back around.

  Now for my great escape, he thought as he turned his attention back towards the fireplace. His muscles ached as he slid the stone wall behind the fireplace aside. Behind it a ladder ran downward and darkness greeted him as he hung along the top rung, tossing a pinch of fire powder to relight the fireplace. It took all of Shrike’s effort not to fall as he pushed the stone slab back into place.

  The iron-runged ladder descended down a chimney that passed below Voskeer’s streets and under its sewers. This would be a tight fit for a faeling, thought Shrike, who was feeling claustrophobic, let alone a middle-aged dwarf.

  He knew he was reaching the bottom when the rungs of the ladder became slippery with water. His feet found earth and he walked through a blackened tunnel, clinging to the walls for balance as he went. Eventually a hint of moonlight appeared in the distance and beckoned him forward. He found an opening and managed to squeeze his head and shoulders through the rock before strong hands yanked him painfully upward.

  “We’ve got him!” said one of the men, who pinned Shrike’s arms with strong hands. “Hold still, traitor,” said the man, whom Shrike recognized as Agent Luke.

  “Any of you kids going to listen to my claim of innocence?” asked Shrike. The rain had stopped and the clouds had parted to reveal a full moon that illuminated the water. They were on the shores by Voskeer’s east side, where the Massapon emptied into the Mono Sea. House-sized chunks of obsidian, remnants of some long-forgotten catastrophe, broke up the beach’s sand. Shrike counted five men in total, all of whom Shrike had employed as agents.

  “Kneel!” shouted a man as Shrike was kicked in the back of his knees and a heavy pair of handcuffs were latched to his wrists.

  A man in front of him spoke. “You are to be executed for betraying Queen Minerva Roselock to the Wild Hunt.”

  They know nothing, these fools. Shrike cocked an eyebrow. “And here I thought she would be having my head for simple incompetence. Why would I betray Minerva after years of service for a bunch of elfkin whose grand plan to change the world is killing dukes and shooting arrows at civilians?”

  The big man in front of him responded with a backhand that left Shrike’s cheek numb. “Shut up, traitor. The Queen should have known better than to trust a subhuman.”

  “And I should have known better than to recruit cretins,” said Shrike as he was struck once again. That’s Finnigan, isn’t it? thought the dwarf, remembering Finnigan from recruitment. He’s come a long way from being a gang leader in Sinstolke. Shrike spat blood onto the sand. “Are you going to get on with it or do you plan to slap me to death?”

  “Finnigan, you see that?” asked Luke, pointing down the beach. A gray mare was approaching, towing an old wooden cart behind it.

  A sword blade was placed on Shrike’s shoulder. A grim reminder of his predicament. “What the fuck is that?” asked Finnigan.

  The cart rolled closer along the desolate shore. An old man held the horses’ r
eins and his dark green cloak blew about in the cold sea winds. Death come to take me? thought Shrike as the old man brought his cart to a halt.

  “What do you think you’re doing here, old man?” asked Luke, pointing a sword at the cart’s driver.

  “Me?” asked the old man, his head covered by a hood. “I’m just an old blind man enjoying a nighttime ride along the beach. I find the sound of the waves quite soothing. They remind me of my sailing days. Perhaps I should ask you the same question,” he said, raising his head to reveal that his eyes were covered by a strip of cloth.

  Finnigan, Luke, and the other three laughed. “No business of yours, old man. Go piss off.”

  The old man shook his head. “No. No, I’m afraid I can’t do that. You have something I’ve come to collect.”

  “Oh, really?” asked Luke. “And what’s that?”

  “The dwarf,” said the hooded man in a low growl. The agents drew their weapons as a boot smashed against Shrike’s back and pushed him to the sand. A soft laugh crept from under the stranger’s green robes. “You wouldn’t hurt a blind old man. Would you?”

  “Who are you?” demanded Finnigan. “Who sent you?”

  “Sent?” asked the stranger. “No one sent me. As to who I am…” The old man paused. “I consider myself to be a friend to those in need. Nothing more, nothing less…”

  Finnigan gestured to two men Shrike didn’t recognize. “Get him out of that cart and get that hood off his head,” he barked as agents strutted up to either side of the cart. The old man didn’t bother to unsheathe his sword as he brought it down upon their heads. Their bodies crumpled to the sand as the robed figure stood in his seat. This creature whom they’d thought to be decrepit and frail stood over six feet tall.

  “Give me the dwarf,” said the great bear in green. “I do not wish to hurt you.”

  The agents rushed the big man, who easily dodged and blocked every single one of their blows. On your feet, thought Shrike, pushing himself up and covering himself with sand and flecks of sea shell. He briefly considered running but, realizing that a bound dwarf wasn’t likely to make it far, he decided to try to help his mysterious savior.