Starfall (The Fables of Chaos Book 1)

by Jackson Simiana

  “Oh, goodness me, little Wesley. You have romantic feelings for my wife?” Petir chuckled.

  Wesley roared with rage. He grabbed his sword from the dust, determined to strike him down. He launched himself forward, stabbing at Petir’s chest.

  With his steel gauntlet, Petir knocked the drunken blow aside with ease and used his shoulder to block Wesley mid-charge, knocking him back down onto his rear in a spray of sand once again.

  It was an embarrassingly clumsy move.

  Petir found his sword and walked over to Wesley, his shadow casting down over his face. “You really are pathetic, aren’t you?” Petir sneered.

  “We have loved each other since childhood… even after you married her,” Wesley said, his words hissing from his dry lips.

  Petir huffed. “Even in defeat, you still speak nonsense.”

  “I speak the truth. We lay together even after you took your 'holy vows.”

  Petir shook his head with a jealous smile. “You are unbelievable. Here you are, at your own wedding tourney after marrying one of the most beautiful princesses in Alyria, making a fool of yourself in front of all these people. You shame your wife and my wife both with your poisonous words.”

  “I loved her ever since the day I met her, and you stole her from me!” Wesley growled. “You know nothing about her, you know nothing about us!”

  Petir smirked. “There is no ‘us’, you wretched moron.”

  Wesley let loose a primal scream and kicked Petir’s shin, his boot crashing into Petir’s greave and knocking him off-balance. Wesley awkwardly jumped up before slashing his sword at the prince as he stumbled.

  Petir met each blow with a parry, but Wesley kept on attacking. His swipes were long and clumsy, but powerful, fuelled by the anger coursing through his veins.

  Petir waited for Wesley to tire himself, then countered one final strike and knocked Wesley’s sword out of his hands. The sword went flying through the air and landed a few yards away.

  It was a clever move yet devastating for Wesley’s chances of victory.

  The crowd cheered and the herald announced the winner of the duel. Petir Blacktree.

  Wesley lowered his head in defeat, tears streaming down his flushed face.

  The crowd applauded in a thunderous roar. The duel had been spectacular. Petir did as he always did- he relished the moment.

  The prince removed his helmet to reveal his handsome face, flicking his characteristically dark Blacktree hair back and waving. He approached the edge of the arena with his arms in the air, leaving his opponent sobbing in the dust.

  “Prince Petir Blacktree is our victor!” the herald repeated.

  Most of the royals were clapping. King Emery appeared relieved. But the look on Tobius Seynard’s face was one of horror. Wesley instantly knew that he had messed up; it was written across his father’s expression as clear as day.

  Petir wiped his brow of sweat as he savoured his moment before lowering his arms to prepare to speak.

  “This fool,” Petir shouted, “claims to have bedded my wife! He tries to sabotage my reputation, shame my family name, and spread filthy lies about my wife.”

  The speech shut most of the crowd up. Both kings were shocked, not knowing what to make of what they had just heard. Ciana sunk her face into her hands, while Jodie’s eyes glazed over, her lips trembling.

  Onlookers muttered to themselves. Some booed, some shouted.

  Jodie could only close her eyes, realising that Wesley had told Petir the truth, despite her husband not seeming to believe it. Jodie’s face went red, as if every eye in the tourney ground was on her.

  Petir pointed at his opponent, still struggling to rise from the dirt. “This is what happens to anyone who tries to harm me or my family. Let it be remembered!”

  The Seynards were gobsmacked. King Emery was completely humiliated by his son’s attempts at slandering them.

  But the crowd seemed to relish the theatrics. They chanted and clapped, eager for more heart-pumping action. They found humour in their disgrace.

  Petir waved his sword around, circling his defeated opponent like a wolf would a bleeding hare.

  “I am Petir Blacktree. My House is strong, and my name will always be remembered.”

  King Emery rubbed his forehead in frustration at his son’s boasting, praying for the moment to end.

  Petir continued. “I am Petir Blacktree, and I will always win!”

  Wesley gritted his teeth, almost at boiling point.

  Petir raised his sword-wielding hand in the air once more to soak in as much glory as he could. His dirty armour seemed to glisten in the afternoon sunlight. He savoured his victory with a smirk across his dusty face.

  “I will always win!”

  A woosh through the air came from Petir’s right.

  A steel sword came swinging out of nowhere. There was a slice, a thud, and a splash of crimson blood, spilling and soaking into the dry, dusty sand.

  The crowd went deafeningly silent.

  Petir stood frozen for a moment, confused, perplexed.

  He lowered his outstretched arm. His pauldron was bloody, and he felt a sudden, overwhelming ache that grew worse by the second. His face became drenched in sweat, his eyes went wide, and the shouting started at the unbearable, dull, malicious pain emanating from just below his shoulder.

  Petir only mumbled. He staggered forward, like his body had a mind of its own. He looked to the crowd for answers, but they were in shock.

  Jodie cried out from the stands.

  King Emery ran for the arena in a panic.

  “What? What is it?” Petir mumbled, half-screaming, half-speaking.

  He stumbled over something beneath him in the sand. It was an arm. His arm.

  Severed beneath the shoulder, thick blood pooling around it.

  Petir’s wide eyes looked back to his shoulder as his face grew pale, unable to comprehend.

  His arm was gone, cut just between the gap in his armour. Arterial blood squirted from the fleshy stump and the white of his snapped bone stuck out like jagged glass.

  The pain intensified like a raging inferno as Petir screamed out in horror once again. He fell to his knees and emptied his stomach.

  Behind where Petir stood was Wesley, his hands blood-spattered and shaking. Gripped tightly between his fingers was the sword he had used to sever Petir’s arm.

  Wesley’s face was completely expressionless as he looked down at what he had just done.

  He released his grip from the sword. It crashed into the bloodied dust.

  Chapter 19 - Winterglade

  The air was painfully frigid from the coastal winds blowing across the land. A cloud of mist exited Tomas’s mouth with each breath he took. Winterglade had been buried under a blanket of white snow as Tomas, Rilan and Landry rode into town, together with their company of soldiers. Gharland was in the lead with his close cohorts, as usual. Ref and Styna stuck to the back, far away from the boys.

  Despite Landry’s threat against them, Tomas was filled with inexplicable fear, knowing now what sort of beasts they were. They truly were dangerous men.

  Rilan had barely muttered a word since that night in Gleamrot. He kept his head tucked beneath the hood of his cloak most of the time, his eyes pointed down, arms folded across his chest with the reins gripped tightly like a lover in his hands.

  Tomas could feel Ref and Styna’s piercing eyes digging deep into the back of his head. He dared not turn around, though.

  Winterglade was larger than most other villages and hamlets in the kingdom. The timber dwellings and stone-brick buildings sat in neat rows with mud tracks running between them. Hundreds of rooftop chimneys sent smoke into the sky.

  On the outskirts of town sat dozens of granaries, farms, and livestock pens, as well as areas of temporary shanty towns filled to the brim with refugees.

  “Refugees, fleeing the war,” Landry whispered to Tomas as they rode through the morning crowds.

  Many of the refugees,
despite the cold, had little to wear. Some barely had tatters of cloth hanging from their thin bodies. Their eyes were hollow from exhaustion, sunken into their face.

  Tomas knew the expression on their face. Hopelessness.

  “They’ve probably lost their homes, their livelihoods,” Tomas realised.

  The refugees had fled the invasion across the kingdom, leaving everything they once were behind. Winterglade was one of the larger settlements in the area and a good distance from the coast; it was as good a place to go as any Tomas could think of.

  Tomas pitied them as they rode past, but there was little he could do for them. He wanted to help, to offer his warm clothing, gift some bread.

  Tomas knew he could not, and that was the hardest thing about seeing them.

  But they had a job to do as well.

  Most of the folk living in Winterglade were rugged up in thick hide coats, leather gloves, cloaks, fur boots, and warm hats to escape the sudden cold snap that had pushed in from the northern coast that morning.

  As the sun climbed in the sky, the snows slowly began to melt, creating a thick, muddy mush that the company were forced to ride through. The town was always damp, being that it was built on a rise in the middle of a shallow marsh.

  Tomas and his comrades rode down the single purpose-built road that led into town, lest they tread through the knee-deep quagmire, a soup of rotting logs, brown mud, stinking peat, and clusters of reeds.

  The road went straight through Winterglade, with poorly manned gates on either end. The single guard at the gatehouse they passed was snoring away on a rickety old chair.

  “Let us find an inn to rest at,” Gharland announced to his company. “Get some food and drink before we head out again this afternoon. Don’t cause any trouble, or I’ll have your tongues cut out.”

  Despite the threat, the soldiers smiled with glee at the prospect of a nice break from the cold. Tomas too was relieved to find some respite to the windburns across his face and the endless, teeth-chattering shivers.

  They passed by rows of shops, townhouses, and an open market with a frost-covered stone fountain at its centre. The water inside was frozen solid. Across the square was a large, multi-levelled building, decorated with timber spires, stone arches and lanterns hanging from its overhangs.

  Tomas’s mouth dropped at the sheer size of the structure; he had never seen a building so big before in his life. Landry caught the look of surprise on his face.

  “That’s the manor house,” Landry explained. “The baron of Winterglade lives there along with his administration and the bailiff. The barons are some of the most powerful men in the kingdom, second to the king himself. Each is given the title to rule a city or large settlement by the king.”

  “It’s bigger than anything I’ve seen before,” Tomas said in awe. “Bigger than Brittlepeak’s windmill, even.”

  Landry snorted. “I guess it must look quite remarkable for someone who hasn’t been to a sizeable town before, let alone a city. I’d pay good money to see your face at the sight of the Kingspire in Shadowshore!”

  Tomas leant over from his horse and tried elbowing Landry as revenge for the jest. The gap between them was too large though, and he missed. Landry laughed at the gesture.

  “Nice try!” Landry said.

  Instead, Tomas took off his glove and, holding it with a firm grip, leant over and used it to smack Landry’s arm.

  Rilan could not help but curiously look up at the slap sound. It almost made him laugh.

  “Bastard!” Landry said with a grin.

  “Fair is fair,” Tomas said. “You got your joke; I got my justice.”

  Landry, smiling, seemed to notice the glint of sunlight shining against the steel chain around Tomas’s neck.

  “What’s that you’ve got around your neck?”

  Tomas felt the outline of the key through his clothes with his hand. “Nothing, it’s just… it’s a reminder of something. Something I can’t forget.”

  “Like, an heirloom from home or something?” Landry asked, cocking an eyebrow.

  Tomas scrunched up his face. “An air-what?”

  “An heirloom. It’s like an item that’s passed down through families, like from father to son.”

  Father.

  Tomas turned away, grimacing. “Ah, yeah… something like that.”

  The company rode down the thoroughfare through sticky muck, frost, and flattened livestock shit before seeing an iron hanging sign for The Pickled Kraken. The inn was old and rugged with a fair few patrons, despite how young the day was.

  Captain Gharland was the first off his horse, landing in the mud with a splat and tying his horses’ reins around the nearest hitching post to the door. His followers mirrored their leader before following him into the inn.

  The old soldier Hemish nearly collapsed as he got down from his horse; his knees were struggling to hold his weight anymore. The long days of riding were not doing anything to help his brittle bones.

  Tomas grabbed Hemish as he stumbled, helping him up to his feet.

  “Thanks, lad,” Hemish said, patting him on the back and laughing in embarrassment. “These knees are going to be the death of me!”

  Tomas nodded with an awkward smile back to the old man.

  As they stepped through the doors, Tomas was hit with a wall of warm air, stinking of sweat, old beer and burning tobacco. The room was filled with diners and drinkers of all kinds. An open fire pit sat in the middle of the room.

  By the bar sat a group of drinking peasants with bony ridges across their faces, bright eyes, and extremely high hairlines with flowing white hair. One was a woman, with long silver hair braided behind her head.

  Valkhor, Tomas realised; their characteristics were unmistakable. He always felt surprised when he saw people of other races, having come from such a small village where such peoples did not even travel to, let alone live.

  On a small stage were some colourfully dressed bards softly playing stringed instruments and flutes.

  Tomas and Rilan found a rickety table away from the rest of the company to sit at. They unfastened their belts, placing their sheathed swords on the table between them. Landry helped the Captain remove his riding gear before joining the boys.

  It felt good for them to sit down on something that wasn’t a saddle or the cold, wet ground.

  The benches weren’t comfortable, by any means. But they were the best seats Tomas had felt beneath him in a long time. His legs had been cramping of late, and it felt good to stretch them out.

  Ref and Styna rushed to the bar and grabbed some flasks of ales. A young girl who appeared to be working at the inn came around from behind the bar to bring drinks.

  Ref smacked the barmaid hard on her backside as she walked past with a serving tray of drinks. The cups and tankards went crashing to the floor as she was stopped in her tracks.

  Ref and Styna both broke out sniggering at her embarrassment. Smiling John saw what they had done and cackled to himself as beer frothed around his lips and facial scars.

  No one else batted an eye. The young barmaid shuffled away to get a mop, red-faced.

  Tomas found her curly brown hair and freckles instantly beautiful. She approached Tomas’s table with teary eyes, wearing a frilly green gown and a stained cream-coloured apron on top.

  “Creator, watch over you. What can I get you boys?” she asked, wiping the tears away and forcing a smile.

  Tomas could see she was bothered. She seemed far too young to be working around these sorts of men.

  “Some beers would be good, thanks. And what do you have to eat?” Landry asked.

  “Rabbit stew with steamed greens,” the girl replied. “Some fresh bread and butter, too.”

  “Perfect, we’ll have some of that, please.” Landry handed the barmaid several marks as payment which she quickly slipped into her pocket.

  Tomas stared into the girl’s eyes as she curtseyed and began to turn away. “Sorry to bother you, but… I just wanted to m
ake sure that you are alright?”

  She was taken aback by the question, as if no one had ever asked such a thing before. “Ah, yes… Yes, I’m fine.”

  “I’m sorry about those two,” Tomas said, gesturing to Ref and Styna as they sculled their drinks, ale pouring down their chins.

  “I’ve got pigs outside in the sty with more manners than them,” the girl joked, sniffling.

  “More brains, too, most likely,” Rilan added from under his hood.

  The girl lowered her head, smirking. “It’s fine, honestly. Comes with the territory. I’m used to it.”

  “You shouldn’t have to be,” Tomas said.

  Tomas did not avert his gaze; he wanted her to know that he was not like them, and that she shouldn’t have to be treated in such a cruel manner simply because it was part of her job. The only comforts he could possibly offer were his words.

  The barmaid shrugged, maintaining her straight face. “I’ll fetch you that order, lads.”

  Landry patted Tomas on the shoulder. “You’re a good man, Tomas,” he said. “Most would fail to call out that behaviour.”

  “I’m not ‘most men’,” Tomas said.

  Why had Tomas always viewed himself as different from everyone else? For as long as he could remember, he had never truly felt close to anyone- even his closest companion, Rilan. Despite their friendship, Tomas always felt his guard was up with everybody around him.

  Landry was right, though. Most men would not have stepped in to say what he had said. Some would even watch on or encourage it. Others might have even joined in.

  I am not like most men.

  He knew Rilan and Landry were just like him as well, in that regard for the most part. They were a unique bunch. They looked out for one another at the possible risk of their own welfare because it was all they could do in such dangerous times and places.

  Looking back on what had happened to Rilan, Tomas knew he could have just as easily been murdered if Landry had not stepped in.

  But in the moment, he did not think. He only acted. His muscles and limbs moved on their own accord, because in that moment, Tomas had known deep within the depths of who he was and what he stood for that he was going to act to stop it from happening.