Starfall (The Fables of Chaos Book 1)

by Jackson Simiana

  Only several years earlier, the town had been a part of Ashen. But with the border war came many such villages and towns being swallowed up by Caldaea, their lords and barons either being imprisoned, expelled, or some cases executed, and replaced.

  A lone structure rose from the town’s centre above the tiled roofs of the surrounding buildings- the square-shaped castle, home to Baron Bennet Decaster, named the Citadel.

  The Ashen forces marched down the wide dirt road, through large swaths of farmland, orchards, and fields dotted with peasant cottages under the midday sun. Emery’s army was only a few miles out from the town when the Old Bear, Baron Artima Lowe, arrived on horseback from the east with a force of cavalry at his back, heavily armed and armoured with lances, poles, shields, and plate.

  “My king,” Artima said, slowing his gargantuan mount upon reaching Emery.

  “You certainly don’t disappoint,” Emery replied with a raised eyebrow, admiring the added reinforcements with eager eyes.

  To the baron’s side was his son, Simen Lowe, a boy of just fifteen years. He barely fit into his plate and mail armour and was sweating profusely with rosy cheeks.

  “My king,” Simen bowed from horseback with a hand over his chest, humbly greeting the king like the well-trained pup he was. “We are at your service.”

  “Good to see you again, lad,” Emery said, only half meaning it.

  Petir was pleased to see such a capable force, judging by the smug look that had stretched over his face. He found it tricky to ride with just one arm but was insistent on coming to the armistice by his father’s side as a show of strength and resilience to the Seynards.

  “I was able to rally together two-hundred cavalry. My men are at your disposal.” The Old Bear still had not shaved, yet the unkempt beard atop his square jaw gave him a stern, rugged look that would sure to be motivating in the upcoming meeting.

  “Good work, Artima, but worry not- I have no intention of ‘disposing’ of them. However, such a sight will certainly be a thorn in Tobius’s wrinkled arse.”

  “I couldn’t ask for anything more,” Artima said, grinning. “Actually, I do have one request of you, if you would do my family the honour.”

  “Ask away.”

  The baron gestured towards his son, uncomfortably slouched atop his horse. “I would ask that you take my son as your squire during these affairs with the Caldaeans. The boy needs some experience with political situations such as these, and who better a teacher than the king himself?”

  Humble, as always, whenever he wants something.

  “What better time than now? Of course, he may squire for me,” Emery agreed.

  He was not overly fond of the boy. Simen was soft and dull and lacked any sort of obvious skill, but there wouldn’t be much for him to have to do during the armistice, all things considered.

  I’m sure even he can handle that.

  Simen Lowe grinned, spreading dimples across his freckled face. “T-thank you, my king. I won’t disappoint.”

  “Come. March with me, baron,” Emery offered.

  Emery removed his crown, replacing it with a visored helm adorned with floral engravings for the ride. He handed his prized crown to his new squire.

  Artima Lowe fell into line with the king and prince while his cavalry separated into two equal halves to guard the flanks of the infantry in precise formation. Simen Lowe, the king’s new squire, rode just behind his father and the king.

  The sound of thunder rumbled in the distance, yet there were no clouds overheard. No one mentioned the approaching storm; there were too many other things to worry about.

  “How’s the arm treating you, lad?” Artima asked, glancing over to Petir.

  “No better, no worse,” Petir said, leaning forward to try and hide his slinged stump from view. The last thing he wanted to do was talk of his humiliating injury.

  The Old Bear grunted. “We will find justice for what happened to you, my prince. Tobius would be a madman to ignore such a threat of power.” Artima gestured towards his cavalry.

  Emery cut in. “I must urge you both to let me handle Tobius Seynard. He still holds my daughter captive, and we will not be throwing idle threats in his direction unless I am the one to do it. We must face the Caldaeans as a unified front. Is that understood?”

  “Of course, my king,” Artima bowed.

  Petir nodded just once. Emery knew his son had a lot he wanted to say to both Wesley and Tobius Seynard after what had happened in Andervale, but this would not be the time nor the place for it.

  Within ten minutes, Emery’s forces had reached the outskirts of Tellersted. The main road narrowed where there more densely packed houses and branching streets.

  The curious, fearful eyes of townspeople watched over them with uncertainty from street corners and windows. Many scurried away like rats or ushered their children indoors.

  Emery did not want to bring his army into the town itself, merely have them on standby and as a show of strength. From the height of the Citadel, the enormous army must have appeared daunting.

  Emery slowed Midnight down and ordered his soldiers to a halt.

  “Ser Yelin, you will have command of the camp while we meet with the Seynards,” Emery said to his royal guard. “Keep our men out of Tellersted. We want to make a statement, not a threat.”

  Ser Yelin rode down the ranks of the infantry, barking instructions to set up camp and delegating responsibilities to the sergeants, all the while ensuring order was kept.

  Half-stature Anai began doing their duties, hammering nails into the ground to pitch tents, and setting up supply caches around the camp.

  Emery rode on into the town with an entourage of well-armed bodyguards, Artima and Simen Lowe, and his son Petir, at a steady trot.

  Midnight’s hooves clapped against the cobblestone road at a regular, soothing beat. Emery straightened his posture, sitting as upright as he could to project a kingly presence.

  Riding in from the easternmost road, they passed by confused patrons at the Two Horns Inn. No threats, shouts or curses were hurled their way, yet Emery could see in their suspicious eyes that the commoners still held resent towards the kingdom of Ashen.

  Most of the dead-eyed drinkers sipped their ales and stared. A newly-carved Moon Mother statuette hung from the front door to the inn.

  The walls of the Citadel at the centre of the town were remarkable, built higher than the outer walls of Tellersted itself, like the fortified heart of the settlement.

  At the outer gate with an unimpressed look upon his face was Baron Bennet Decaster. The ginger man had beady little eyes and a mop of orange, oily hair atop his thick head. He stood with a group of guards, crossing his arms at his chest.

  “Baron Decaster, always an honour,” Emery greeted, lifting his visor. He tried his best to not sound sarcastic, despite loathing the pretentious fool.

  Decaster, formally an Ashen lord, had been bitter towards the eastern kingdom since the Caldaean takeover.

  Decaster had taken on to his new lieges a little too quick for Emery’s liking, tearing down statues around town dedicated to the Chantry and replacing them with effigies of the Moon Mother.

  It’s hard to believe they were once our people. They had altered their entire customs and religion practically overnight and punished residents unwilling to change.

  Rumour had it that Decaster ordered his guards to burn any blasphemer at the stake in the light of the Moon Mother soon after the takeover had occurred.

  “King Emery,” Decaster huffed, refusing to bow when most others would, “back so soon to our humble town? I recall you coming through on your way to Andervale not two weeks past, if I am correct?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid we had to cut our visit to the capital short.”

  “I hear that’s not the only thing that was cut short,” Decaster said, eyeing Petir with a grin.

  Petir clenched his jaw, looking about ready to pounce from the back of Fury and launch himself at the weaselly baron.
Emery, however, was glad that the prince met the insult with no response other than a spiteful glare.

  “You have all the charm of a wet sock, Decaster,” Artima Lowe shouted pompously, loud enough that the people around them could hear it clearly.

  “You know why we’re here,” Emery said.

  “Oh, yes, of course. You are here to meet King Tobius! Silly me, I assumed you were here to exchange witty banter with me all day!”

  “We’d need longer than a day to hear something witty come from your mouth, Decaster,” Artima replied.

  Emery gave Artima a sharp look, as if to tell him to reel it in a little.

  “Let’s move this along, shall we? We all have better places to be,” Emery said.

  Decaster sneered. “King Tobius has already arrived. He awaits you at the Citadel.”

  “Very good. Lead the way.”

  Decaster escorted his guests through Tellersted. Lining its well-maintained, cobblestone streets were two-storey, timber-framed rowhouses, constructed of wattle with tiled roofs. Other structures had decorated terraces, balconies, and chimneys. The residents in town were among the wealthiest in the area.

  Out the front of the Citadel was an open, paved courtyard with a large fountain at its centre. Dozens of townspeople were gathered in and around the square, curious to catch a glimpse of the neighbouring king.

  With so many eyes upon them from all around, Emery was beginning to feel a little more suspicious. There were far too many potential threats to consider each one appropriately.

  He would have to trust that they truly meant for peace and that this wasn’t some sort of trap.

  The statue in the fountain’s centre was new, cut in the shape of a large crescent moon. Engraved at its base were the words ‘Teller’s Square’.

  It, like the other religious decorations around the town, had once been a statue dedicated to the Creator. A knight, if Emery remembered correctly.

  Children were playing in the water of the fountain, laughing, and squealing like everything in the world was perfect, until their guardians ushered them away at the sight of the approaching party.

  Emery spotted a group outside the entrance archways to the Citadel, seated at a huge square table with a temporary sunshade overhead. He immediately recognised King Tobius, proudly flaunting an elaborate robe of Autumn colours with ruffled sleeves, and tied at the waist by a jewelled belt. It was far too stylish for him to pull off successfully.

  Tobius was wearing his bronze crown atop his bald head, and for once it was not tilted or half hanging off.

  Emery slowed Shadow down with a tug on the reins, before dropping from his saddle. He took off his engraved helm, passing it to Simen Lowe who promptly handed him his crown.

  Artima Lowe and Petir came down from their horses as their guards took the reins from them. Petir was glaring at Tobius Seynard, an expressionless yet piercing stare.

  Emery walked with determination towards the Seynards, fixing his crown so that it sat perfectly atop his head, with a gulp of saliva to clear his throat. No one said a word for a few moments as the Blacktrees approached the meeting.

  The tension was thick like a morning fog in the air. The rumbling of the thunder from earlier seemed to be drawing closer.

  As Simen reached the table, Emery’s helm went tumbling from his hands, crashing onto the cobblestone with a bang. It did, however, do well to shatter the awkward silence.

  “S-sorry, my king. I’m so sorry,” Simen stuttered, scrambling after the tumbling helm like a child racing after his toy.

  Tobius snickered to himself at the embarrassing situation as Artima Lowe huffed at his son, rubbing his forehead.

  “Tobius,” Emery said firmly as they reached their seats. The king of Caldaea did not stand up or offer his hand, merely nodding to his adversary.

  Emery rested upon the lavish chair opposite Tobius, followed shortly by Petir and Artima. Simen took a step back awkwardly, trying to gauge the correct distance to stand away from his king.

  “King Emery. Marvellous to see you again,” Tobius said with a note of disdain in his shrewd voice. “I saw from atop the Citadel that you brought a force of men with you?”

  “And cavalry, yes,” Emery replied quickly.

  Tobius nodded. “Not intending on starting another war, are you, Emery?”

  “Not today. Not unless we have to.”

  “Good, good. I will send word to my one-thousand troops to receive your men peacefully, then. Baron Decaster’s city guards will do the same.”

  That was new information to Emery. Tobius had brought his own force as well, it seemed. It added a new variable to the mix, one that sent a chill down his back.

  “Thank you, Tobius,” Emery said, ensuring he didn’t let his surprise show. “I appreciate it. We want nothing more than to sort this mess out once and for all.”

  Tobius clapped his hands boisterously. “Wonderful! Well then, allow me to introduce my council to you.”

  Emery inhaled loudly. Get on with it already.

  “Of course, you have met our gracious host, Baron Bennet Decaster,” Tobius said, offering the baron a seat on his side of the table with a gesture of the hand.

  “We’ve had the pleasure, yes,” Artima said from Emery’s side.

  Tobius gestured to two men sitting either side of him- one was a tall, lanky man with bony cheeks with a stack of papers before him, the other an older, weasel-faced man wearing all black. “My royal advisors, Oren Harrin,” Tobius said; the skinny man to his right bowed, “and Hart Moralis.” The older man in black nodded to Emery coldly.

  Emery, however, could not help but notice the giant of a soldier standing to Tobius’s rear in full-plated armour, wielding a war hammer as big as a man.

  “And behind me here is Sen Dorval, my personal bodyguard. Some may know him as ‘The Ogre’, a nickname I am not so fond of, but it nonetheless rather accurate,” Tobius announced proudly.

  The goliath simply grunted.

  “Where’d you find him? Some giant’s tribe from the Creator’s Fist? The boy’s huge,” Baron Artima said, marvelling at Sen Dorval.

  Tobius chuckled. “Aye, aye. The boy’s only recently come into my service and is already proving to be… rather talented at what he does.”

  Tobius almost seemed overly thrilled to be there, showing off; it was making Emery uncomfortable. He was bringing out all the ammunition he had for this meeting.

  “And where’s the prince?” Petir said candidly upon realising his absence. “Where’s Wesley?”

  Emery was also curious also. Where was the king’s son?

  “Unfortunately, my son could not attend our armistice. He is back home in Andervale, looking after his new wife.”

  Emery felt his stomach twist at the thought of that cockroach being left alone with his daughter, Ciana. He huffed, placing his hands together atop the table and leaning forward.

  He heard the crack of thunder again. The distant storm was getting closer, it seemed. A warm wind came out of nowhere, shifting the air around them.

  Some Anai slaves brought over some jugs of wine, and the squires poured the drink into the goblets for the two kings before anyone else.

  Tobius devoured his drink in a flash, licking his cracked lips, while Emery took a small sip and placed the goblet to his side.

  “Not a fan of the sweetness, I take it?” Tobius chuckled.

  Emery shook his head. “Not a fan of wasting time. Let’s forego the pleasantries, Tobius. We have a lot to discuss.”

  Tobius swallowed another cup of wine.

  “I want to know why one of your ships crashed into Dawnhill’s harbour,” Emery insisted.

  “You’d have to ask the crew,” Tobius said with a shrug, wiping his dripping mouth with his sleeve.

  “The crew is dead. The city guard found them in pieces throughout the ship.”

  “Then I cannot help you, I’m afraid. Pirates, perhaps?”

  “Was it deliberate? Did you orchestrate this?”r />
  “Moon Mother, of course not!” Tobius cracked. “I don’t know what happened aboard that ship, but it had nothing to do with Caldaea.”

  Emery clasped his hands back together. “You can understand my suspicions, given it was a Caldaean ship and with the timing of the incident.”

  “We empathise with you truly, King Emery,” Oren Harrin, the skeletal advisor said in a calming tone with eyes greyer than steel. “Already, our people and economies suffer from this situation and the resulting halt of shipping.”

  Oren Harrin presented several sheets of paper with paragraphs of writing and numbers, detailing the losses each kingdom would be facing due to the economic blockade.

  Emery could not deny that the decision to cease trade with Caldaea would be a drastically expensive one which would surely send much of his kingdom’s population into poverty.

  “We want nothing more than a quick resolution to this situation,” Oren Harrin said. “Neither of our kingdoms can afford these sanctions after having dealt with the border conflict for so many years.”

  Emery remained silent for a moment as he assessed how to proceed. He thought of his wife, Sirillia, somewhere at the edge of town in his army’s makeshift camp, worrying herself about their daughter Ciana.

  He thought of Ciana, trapped alone in a foreign city, forced to remain with a fool of a husband.

  He did not want to disappoint his wife or cause her any more grief by extending this affair.

  He could hear his paternal instincts screaming into his head.

  Protect your children. Get your daughter back.

  Emery breathed in, staring Tobius in the eye from across the table. “We will lift the economic sanctions placed upon Caldaea.”

  Tobius grinned and nodded, while Oren Harrin let out a sigh of relief, stacking his papers back into a neat pile. The weasel-faced Hart Moralis remained expressionless, as if he were frozen in that very spot.

  “That is excellent to hear, King Emery,” Oren Harrin said cheerfully.

  “A good choice, indeed,” Tobius said.

  “On one condition,” Emery added. The entire table went quiet, realising that he had not yet finished speaking. “You will return Ciana to me at once, and the wedding to Wesley will be annulled.”