It contained ancient script, but he could read it. It had been written during the era when all kingdoms were one, ages before. It told the story of King Ruoff and the Crown of Stones. It was the same crown worn by King Hector today. Six settings remained empty, made for six gems. The emerald in King Hector’s pendant was one of those gems. King Hector’s oldest ancestor on record was King Maceadon. He’d had five selfish children and one good. At their prompting, he agreed to bless each with a kingdom. He passed each of them a stone set in its own crown in his feebleness before he died. He gave his emerald stone, a crown, and Kingsland to his youngest and good son. The other five siblings were jealous and corrupt. King Maceadon’s children and their children’s children drifted further apart. King Maceadon’s bloodline became so foul that only the good bloodline could be traced back to King Hector. Led by strife and greed, the new kingdoms continued to divide. Their true heritage was lost, along with their crowns and stones. In their anger, they all turned against the Kingsland, ruled by the youngest brother, and forced him from the main lands, south, to where the House of Steel resided.
Leodor traced his finger over the lettering. He mumbled the ancient text in his own language.
“Six stones. One kingdom. A crown with sturdy horns. Six stones unite all kingdoms. One land. One people. One king. One home. Six stones, the life of Titanuus. Six stones to rule the throne. Six stones to unite the world.”
He knew the saying like the back of his hand, but more was there to be read. It told how the stones were meant to be together, working as one. But a devoted group of men and women hid the stones so that no one would ever find them again. Their location was kept secret for eons and their location finally lost. Only King Hector still had the one made from emerald. At least, that is what they all believed it was.
Leodor’s fingers traced over the ancient lettering. He read aloud. “When the eyes of the other worlds open, the stones will reveal themselves.” He rolled up the scroll and tapped it on his chin. “To tell the king or not to tell the king… That is the question.”
47
Inside Baracha, the Henchmen battled the Gonds in the night. Cudgel and Tark latched onto a Gond’s massive legs like ticks, while Bearclaw choked the man to death. The strategy proved futile. The superior numbers of Shade’s gang overwhelmed them. Horace had both of his arms locked up by two men, while a third brute beat on him like a drum.
Prospero and Apollo were both facedown in the dirt, taking hard kicks to the ribs.
Bearclaw was the last to go down swinging before he succumbed to the thrashing.
Shade and his gang hemmed Sticks and the other three women against the wall. Vern crouched in front of them. He held his ribs with one hand and balled up a fist with the other. “Why don’t we settle this between me and you, Shade?” Vern said. “Man to man!”
“Step aside, you fool. I’m not going to get my hands dirty on account of you.” With his hands concealed in his cloak, Shade eased toward Vern.
Vern threw a hard punch.
Shade snaked his neck out of the way and drove a knee into Vern’s ribs.
With a loud groan, Vern crumpled to the ground.
Sticks slipped into Shade’s blind side, dropped low, and punched his ribs.
Shade fell onto both knees. Clutching his sides, he said, “Will one of you idiots contain her?”
Two Gonds pounced at her.
She kicked one that was missing his ears, in the crotch. The barbarian didn’t wince. With a swipe of his heavy hand, he snatched her by the hair, yanked her up to her toes, and headbutted her. Painful stars exploded in her eyes, and her legs became noodles. She swayed but didn’t fall on account of the Gond holding her up by her hair.
She looked up at the Gond and said, “I thought you mindless cow turds had standards.”
“Uh huh,” said the second Gond with tattoos all over his face just before he punched her in the gut.
The wind exploded out of her. As she gasped for breath, they let her fall to the ground.
Shade squatted down beside her and said, “Ah, looks like someone is bonding with her new lovers.” He patted her on the head. “Good for you, Sticks. The Gond appreciate a humble woman. You’ll make an excellent bride for the entire tribe.”
The prison sirens whistled in the air. On the other side of the prison yard, the guards, spears in hand, charged toward the fight. They dug their spear butts into Shade’s gang and the Henchmen with merciless force. The gang of Gonds dispersed.
Shade backed away from Sticks. As spears were pointed at his chest, he held his hands up high. “Heh, heh, heh.” He grinned down at Sticks. “The guards won’t care forever. Your time is almost up. Like them. Your numbers dwindle.” He tipped his head at two dead Red Tunics who lay facedown in the mud. Their necks were twisted unnaturally toward their shoulders. “Bye… for now.”
The pale-faced commander of the Baracha guards was the only one not wearing a helmet. He wore blackened plate mail, with the commander’s eight chevrons stamped on the chest. Wolf fur was woven into the shoulders, and it made a short cape behind his back. He carried a studded mace with both of his hands. His face was ugly and pockmarked. His greasy brown hair was combed over. He spat tobacco juice on the ground and asked, “Which one of you goatherds is Horace?”
“I am,” Horace said. He was on his knees with his hands sunk into the muddy ground. He pulled them out with a sucking sound. “Can I help you, Commander?”
“Yes, you can. You can round up your bastards and get your fat belly out of my prison.” The commander spat juice on the ground. “Well, what are you waiting for? A wagon?”
With a groan, Horace came to his feet. “Aye, sir.”
“Sergeant, see to it that they are properly processed.” The commander looked down at the two dead retainers. “Are those your dead?”
Horace nodded.
“Drag them out unless you’d like me to have the Gond bury them for you.”
“No, thank you. I’ll take care of it.” Horace picked a Red Tunic up in his arms. Bearclaw crawled out of the mud and hefted the other dead man over his shoulders. Escorted by the Baracha guards, Horace led the Henchmen toward the prison’s portcullis exit.
Shade’s gang beat their chests and jeered. Hundreds more prisoners joined in. Shade marched alongside the Henchmen, shouting at them with bitterness in his voice. “You’ll be back! All of you! Tell Ruger I’ll be waiting for him too! Tell him the Gonds will be waiting! Next time, all of you will pucker up and kiss my fanny!”
Sticks didn’t look back. She held her stomach as she hobbled through the front gate with a growing headache.
Once outside of the prison yard, the Baracha guards returned all their gear to them. The commander pointed down the road and sent them on their way. Sticks trudged down the road with her chin dipped. Her headache was awful. Everything was sore. Everyone in the company moved at a sluggish gait, their shoulders sagging.
“Where to now?” Sticks asked Horace.
“I’m not sure. The Stronghold, I suppose,” he replied. With the dead man in his arms, Horace took the lead.
They made it one hundred yards up the road when Horace came to a stop. At the top of the rise, a rider on a horse waited in the moonlight. The midnight rays glistened on the man’s breastplate. It was Ruger Slade.
Slowly, the company slogged up to their captain and cast their weary eyes on him.
Sitting tall in the saddle, the strapping sword master asked, “What’s the matter with you guys? You look like you just ate a mouthful of donkey dung.”
The Henchmen exchanged glances with one another.
“Pardon, Captain,” Horace said.
Ruger Slade’s black horse nickered and stamped its hooves. It had a white patch of hair on the top of its snout and was geared up with a black leather harness and saddle.
“Easy, boy. Easy.” He looked at the dead man in Horace’s arms. “A sad thing seeing a Red Tunic becoming a dead tunic. Let’s go make a hole and bur
y them.”
The Henchmen followed Ruger Slade for miles, all the way to his stronghold south of Burgess. It was a small fortress built from natural stone, three stories tall, complete with battlements at the top, with its back against a steep hillside of rock. It was surrounded by acres of rich farmland and a small lake. A red barn with stables lay nearby. Livestock grazed. Hired hands slept in the surrounding storehouses. It was Ruger’s home and the Henchmen’s stronghold, a place that rivaled the lands of the local barons of Burgess.
They stopped at a graveyard overlooking the lake. Dozens of headstones were in the field. Horace and Bearclaw grabbed shovels and started digging. All the Henchmen took turns, even Ruger.
Sticks dug in disbelief. They hadn’t buried a Red Tunic or Henchman in years. The old Ruger had stopped doing it. Now, the new Ruger dug and even said a few words.
“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. May our brethren find a heaven where their steel does not rust.”
48
Abraham woke in total comfort. He lay in a down-filled bed, dressed in soft cotton. He was so comfortable he didn’t want to move. He was sunk in, paralyzed in bliss. He didn’t even remember having gone to sleep the night before. He didn’t want to open his eyes.
Please let me wake up in the most comfortable hospital bed ever.
His nostrils flared. Somewhere, coffee brewed. The early birds chirped their morning songs. A breeze ran through the room, carrying the smell of baked bread to his nose.
Grandma?
When he was a boy, he would visit his grandmother in the country and stay a week at a time. Every morning at the table were flaky oversized biscuits stacked a mile high. That was decades before. He knew it couldn’t be but wished it could.
A gentle hand caressed his chest. Soft, sweet breath touched his face. A nubile body brushed up against him. A sensual leg crossed over his.
Uh oh. Dare I look?
He thought at first that it was Sticks. But her touch wasn’t so soft. He thought of his wife, Jenny. He wished it could be her but knew it couldn’t be, for she was dead.
Perhaps I’m still dreaming.
He opened his eyes.
A gorgeous woman with piles of jet-black hair lay beside him with a smile in her gorgeous eyes. She ran her thighs up and down his. She said in a sensual voice, “Good morning, Captain.” She kissed his shoulder with lips as soft as rose petals. “Did you sleep well?”
“Uh… I think so,” he said, trying to recall her name.
From behind him, a second body wrapped him in a warm embrace. Lips kissed his back and neck. He thrust himself up into sitting position. Another woman lay on the other side of him. She was identical to the other one with the beautiful raven hair and dusky skin. They could have easily passed for the supervixen Hispanic and Italian movie stars he’d grown up watching.
“Wow.”
“You fell asleep so quickly last night that we didn’t get to have any fun,” the one who woke him up said as she sat up beside him. She wore a short black nightgown that showed off her natural curves. Her hand worked its way down his chest. “Are you ready to have fun now?”
The other woman was dressed in pink. She looked underneath the furs and said, “I think he is.”
With all his teenage fantasies suddenly coming to life, he needed every ounce of willpower to say, “No. Just, wait, uh, please, ladies.” His heart raced like a galloping horse. He knew Ruger’s body was about to take over, and he couldn’t let that happen. “It’s just a dream. Just a dream. Don’t worry about it,” he mumbled.
The door opened to his room. A third woman entered, carrying a serving tray. She wore a sexy white medieval teddy designed like the others. She was another identical twin.
Triplets! Now I know it’s a dream.
The woman in white set down a platter of foot on the end of the bed, with a mug of steaming coffee, a stack of what looked like crudely made pancakes, a pile of scrambled eggs, and cooked ham. “Captain, you must be very hungry from your journeys. You did not eat last night. Let me feed you, as I always do.”
He was hungry, and not just for food. He gazed at her full breasts, swallowed, tore his eyes away and asked, “Sophia?”
“Yes,” the woman in white said.
He pointed at the one in black. “Selma.”
“Yes, Captain? What is your wish?” Selma replied.
He turned to the one in pink. “Bridget.”
Bridget kissed his fingers. “You named me. You can rename me.”
A new wave of memories came back to him. Viceroy Leodor mentioned setting the old Ruger up with property and servants years before. The triplets were a special gift. A lot of Ruger’s history continued to pour back into his memories. The Stronghold was a fine piece of land that used to be the property of a retired Guardian. Leodor had the power to gift it to Ruger. Or perhaps, Ruger—or rather, Eugene—demanded it. He wasn’t entirely sure. But based off the evidence, Eugene shamelessly took advantage of all the comforts that this fantasy life had to offer. He took a long look at the beautiful women surrounding him.
“Oh lord, I am Mudd.”
“No, you are the Captain,” the dreamy Selma said innocently.
Selma wore black, Sophia pink, and Bridget white. Eugene must have made them always dress in those colors so that he wouldn’t mix them up even though each of them did have their own unique mannerisms.
At least he didn’t name them Blossom, Bubbles, and Buttercup. That would have been really weird.
Abraham slid out of the bed and covered himself with a blanket. He was still grimy from his early adventures.
Bridget tugged at his blanket. “You need to bathe. The hot springs await, as always.” She pulled her shoulders back and made a perky smile. “I will join you!”
He pulled away and headed for the window. The room took up the entire third floor of the Stronghold. It had wardrobes, chests of drawers, Persian-like carpets, and closets. The outer walls were solid stone, but the interior walls of the other rooms were wooden. The home had many modern aspects. He guessed it had five thousand square feet inside the rock. Outside were botanical gardens, hedges, a working farm, and at least a dozen hirelings that he could see breaking a sweat in the morning sunlight. With a great pond, its own hot springs, eye-catching gardens, and voluptuous women dwelling inside, it was nothing short of a medieval Playboy mansion.
This is ridiculous.
He crossed the room and stopped in front of a mirror angled so that he could see the women lounging enticingly on the bed. He took his first long look at himself.
Dang. Hugh Jackman, eat your heart out.
His sculpted frame wasn’t layered in mounds of muscles. It was a finely honed physical specimen with well-defined, rippling muscles. He towered with broad shoulders and a narrow waist. He might as well have been cast from molten iron. With strong angular features and a steel-hard gaze, long limbed and big handed, he didn’t look anything short of the deadliest swordsman who had ever been. He had the scars to show for it. No wonder men feared him. He feared himself.
He heard the rattle of a wagon rolling and saw it outside, hitched to a mule. Hay was loaded in the wagon, along with tools to work the fields. Far off in the distance, Bearclaw was manning a plow in the gardens. Sticks drove the wagon out of the barn. Cudgel, Tark, and two Red Tunics were sitting in the back. They were out of their armor and in work clothing. Sticks caught his eye and looked away.
Abraham started toward the steps.
What’s this all about?
“Captain, where are you going?” Sophia said.
“Yes, we’ve missed you. Come back to bed,” Bridget added.
Abraham left.
49
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Abraham said as he took the mule by the reins and brought the wagon to a stop. He looked at Sticks. “We need to talk.”
“Certainly, Captain,” Sticks remained in her seat and looked him dead in the eye.
“Let’s walk, and don’t call me Captain,” he
said. “Cudgel, Tark, don’t go anywhere. We’ll be right back.”
Sticks hopped out of the wagon. She was still filthy dirty from the prison yard.
He followed the pathway that led out to the pond. No one else was nearby. Last night, he hadn’t told the group anything new either. He just acted according to what he knew about Ruger. And burying the dead was the right thing to do, with a proper burial, when people gave their lives for you. He’d learned that from his veteran father.
“I’m still fuzzy on a lot of things,” he said. “I know places and some people, but I’m not sure how it all works. So fill me in. When we come back to the Stronghold, all of you sleep in the barns? The house is plenty big.”
“We used to stay in the house, but you removed us a few years ago. You said the hirelings work harder when we are out here.” She shrugged. “We all work hard out here. It’s what we do.”
“But you only supervise, right?”
“It depends on the mood you are in. You say you want the Stronghold to be… tasteful. You are very proud of your wine cellar and gardens.”
“I have a wine cellar?”
“Below the house, beside the dungeon.”
He stiffened. “I have a dungeon too?”
“Yes,” she said with a straight face. “But you don’t use it for prisoners. You enjoy other things.”
“Ah geez, I’m a pervert. Or I was a pervert. Listen, Eugene was the pervert, not me.” Tapping his chest with his fingers and looking right at her, he said, “I’m not a pervert.”
Sticks shrugged.
Ruger’s eyes were like a scanner that would identify things and fill in the blanks as he saw them. Ruger’s mind would fill in some memory gaps, too. They walked out on a small dock at the pond. Ducks swam by. Facing outward, he said, “I was a real dickhead, wasn’t I?”
“Dickhead?”
“A jerk.”
She tilted her head. “You pull something hard? You are good at that.”
The King's Henchmen: The Henchmen Chronicles - Book 1 Page 17