Within the Hollow Crown

by Antoniazzi, Daniel

  Corthos was a pirate.

  At least, that’s what he told people. Usually, pirates tried to pretend they weren’t pirates, to avoid trouble with the local constables. But for Corthos, his case was exactly the opposite. He hoped, dearly, that people would think he was a pirate. He wore an eye patch over his perfectly healthy left eye. He spoke with that particular brand of poor grammar that delineated his profession. For a short time, he even had a stuffed parrot strapped to his shoulder.

  Corthos’ only regret was that he had never lost any limbs, and didn’t have any peg-legs or hook-hands to show off to the ladies at the pub.

  And for most of his life, he was also lacking in one other respect: He didn’t have a boat. He worked as a dockhand, loading and unloading cargo. But he had never sailed anywhere. And he kept scaring the other dockhands with stories about kidnapping, raiding, pillaging, and buried gold, none of which was true.

  Nobody knew where Corthos’ obsession with pirates began. Certainly, his parents didn’t encourage him.

  “Corthos, come here,” his Father would say. “Now, I just spoke to Miller, and he said that you tried to kidnap his daughter for a ransom.”

  “Aye,” Corthos said, mostly because he knew it pissed off his Father.

  “And Smith said you led his kids on a raid of the wood shop, and stole three planks of wood.”

  “Aye, it were a good pillaging.”

  “Now, listen here, son,” his Father said, “You have to learn to play nice with other kids. You can’t keep pretending to be a pirate. And it’s high time we got you an apprenticeship. What do you want to be when you grow up?”

  “A pirate, matey.”

  “Why can’t you be more like your brother and be a stone mason?”

  “Nay, not a stone-cutter’s life for me.”

  “Then, how about a woodsman?”

  “Nay, I dunnot want to be a woodsm’n.”

  “You could be a butcher. A baker. A candlestick maker.”

  “There be only one life for me, and it’s on the high seas!” Corthos declared, as he drew his wooden sword and held it to the air.

  “Fine,” Father said, “You can join the Count’s Navy.”

  “Thems be weaklings with white uniforms and too many rules. Methinks I should be a pirate instead.”

  “Corthos, my boy, you can’t become a pirate. People don’t choose to become pirates. They are born out of economic necessity, bad neighborhoods, that sort of thing. They are seaborne street gangs. You are a healthy young boy, and you have a loving family. I will not let you be a pirate.”

  “You cannot stop me, Father! I will be a pirate no matter what it takes!”

  And so he ran off. He went straight to the south shore, at the docks just east of Hartstone Castle, and lived there from the age of ten.

  He picked up what work he could from the less picky foremen. He had pure brawn, so if you were willing to put up with the garb and the accent, he was excellent at moving heavy things.

  He saved every farthing he got his hands on. He lived in what some would call abject poverty, but he had his dreams to keep him warm at nights. Finally, he had enough to buy a boat of his own. It wasn’t pretty, but it was his, and he loved it.

  The shoddy craft didn’t attract the kind of clientele most people sought, but since Corthos prided himself on being a pirate, it suited him nicely. He was happy to deliver small loads of cargo, especially the sort that you didn’t want customs agents knowing about. And the same went for people. If they needed to get out of Deliem, he wouldn’t ask any questions.

  But, to keep up appearances, he had a sign up by the boat, painted in black, which read: “Tour the Kingdom, starting at only ten Ducats.” Nobody was fooled into thinking Corthos was any kind of tour guide. You would have to be really clueless to fall for his cover story.

  “Jareld,” Thor said, “Look: A boat that will take us to the Island of Milos.”

  Jareld whispered back, “I don’t think we want to take this boat.”

  “But, for only ten Ducats…” Thor said, his voice anything but quiet.

  Suddenly, a pirate popped out from below decks.

  “Top o’ the mornin’ to ya!” Corthos bellowed. Jareld and Thor recoiled in unison.

  “Umm… Hello,” was all Jareld could manage.

  “What is it ya’ need?”

  “Actually,” Thor said, “We need to get to the Island of Milos.”

  “Then welcome aboard the Leaking Tub!”

  True enough, the boat had its name painted on the side. The Leaking Tub was built forty-three years ago as a minor supply ship for the Count’s Navy. It had been decommissioned some twelve years ago, which is why Corthos had managed to get it at a bargain price. The rudder was broken, the sails ripped, the steering wheel warped, and the hull rotted. Corthos admitted to himself that it was a fixer-upper, but a few more jobs and he’d have enough coins to give her a nice overhaul.

  “I think we’re going to check with the Galleon over there, to see where it’s heading.”

  “Wait a minute, matey,” Corthos said, leaping off the ship and onto the pier beside Jareld. “That there Galleon is a fine ship. The Stormbearer it is called. And she has a prime crew, to be sure. But...” Corthos said with a finger of warning, “It will not go where you wish. It be the Count’s ship, so e’en if it sail West, it likely won’t stray past Avonshire.”

  “I see your point, but--”

  “Now, the Leaking Tub ain’t much to look at, I’ll grant you that. And she may not ‘ave technically passed inspection in the last three years. And ya may have to share some of our rations with the mice from time to time. But I am bound by no law, by no man, and by no border, and for the right price, I can take ya’ anywhere in this great land, or beyond, if that be your wish.”

  “How much to get us to Milos?” Jareld asked, taking out a small bag of coins and shaking it around. It seemed to Corthos that something could be worked out.

  Chapter 16: Knowledgeable Birds

  Two carrier pigeons flew in the silent night over the Avonshire-Deliem border. One was headed west, to Anuen, to inform the King that Prince Nathaniel was dead. The other was headed east, to Hartstone, to inform Prince Nathaniel that the King was dead.

  Had those two pigeons stopped for a quick drink at the same fountain, and had they gotten into a quick conversation, they would have been the most informed beings in the Kingdom on the first night of summer.

  But full comprehension of the assassinations would have to wait until the following day. In the meantime, Landos had quite a mess to clean up.

  The first thing Landos did was send runners to Rutherford Manor, Bridgeport, and Fort Lockmey. These three strongholds stood at the west, north, and eastern-most parts of the County, and if Deliem were under attack, they would know first.

  Next, the most time consuming thing that Landos had to do, was get rid of the wedding guests. He had to clear the commoners out of the courtyard, which was hard, after all the excitement. Certainly, this would be talked about for months, all the way to the Spicy Kangaroo. Even the nobles didn’t want to leave. Some legitimately wanted to help, but most just wanted gossip to share at the next joust. Of all the foreign dignitaries, only Count Ralsean was allowed to stay to comfort his daughter.

  Next, there were the dead and injured. Rutherford and four other minor nobles had died in the courtyard. Of the ten Royal Guards that had come with Nathaniel, nine were dead. And, of course, so was the Prince. It would take some effort to make his body presentable for burial.

  There was only one injured. Lady Vye had taken more punishment than Landos would have thought anyone could endure. She was in the infirmary, but nobody could tell if she would make it. She should have been dead already. So either she was really close to dying, or nothing was going to stop her.

  And finally, there was the assassin himself. It took two Guards to drag him to the dungeon. Gabriel saw to it that he was restrained in every way they could imagine. He also gagged t
he prisoner. Nobody knew how to stop someone who could use magic, but from what Gabriel was able to piece together, he needed to speak in order to do anything.

  Landos watched the entire process. In his young life, he had never seen a Turin. But he knew they existed. He believed they were out there. But magic... He had also been taught, as was the common wisdom, that magic didn’t exist. Nobody could cross a continent through a shadow, immobilize a courtyard full of people, or kill with just incantations.

  But now Landos was staring at this man, aware in some small way that the world was changing around him. Or rather, the way he looked at the world was going to have to change. And if it didn’t change fast enough, he wasn’t sure he would survive the turn in the road.

  It was almost midnight when a guard informed Landos that Lady Vye was awake. He ran to the infirmary.

  “Good morning,” Landos said, coming up to the side of her bed.

  “Is it morning already,” Vye said, still coming to.

  “Actually, it’s about midnight,” Landos said, “But I’ll take any time of day if you’re not hurt too badly.”

  “I’m-HOLY SHIT THAT HURTS!!!” Vye said, as she tried to straighten up and rediscovered that a few of her ribs were broken. She collapsed onto her back and exhaled, wincing and holding her side.

  “Umm… they said you shouldn’t move too much.”

  “Thanks for the warning.”

  “Listen, Vye, I’m glad to see you’re… mostly OK. But I need you to tell me what happened.”

  “Where’s the guy?”

  “What guy?”

  “The guy? The guy with- The Turin. The assassin. Where is he?”

  “He’s downstairs, in the dungeon.”

  “You can’t leave him alone. You have to watch out for him.”

  “We’re watching out.”

  “He’s very dangerous.”

  “We know. Gabriel has taken some special measures to make sure he can’t, you know, kill us with his mind.”

  “Good.”

  “But you need to tell us how you defeated him.”

  “Oh, Landos, let me tell you, it was a hell of a fight.”

  “Really?”

  “He’s good. I mean, I’m good, but he’s goooood. You know what I mean?”

  “I think you need some more rest.”

  “Let me just tell you how I finally got him.”

  “Sure.”

  “You see, he was using this crushing stone thing, and then I got out of that, and then…”

  Vye trailed off. Her memory stopped there. She was sure there was more, but at the moment, she was drawing a blank.

  “You got out of that, and then…what?” Landos prompted.

  “Hold on, I’m thinking.”

  “Did you kick him?”

  “No.”

  “Hit him with the handle of the sword?”

  “No.”

  “Because there are no sword wounds, so we--”

  “Flopson!”

  “What?”

  “It was Flopson. I didn’t beat him. Well, I did at the very end, but it was really Flopson.”

  “Oh.”

  There was a moment of silence. Landos was thinking about what this meant. He knew something about Flopson, and knew that he was a jester not to be crossed. Lady Vye was swimming in a place between splitting headache and apathetic euphoria. She closed her eyes. Landos saw this, turning to leave the infirmary.

  Before he stepped away from her bed, though, Vye grabbed his wrist.

  “Landos?”

  “Yes, My Lady?”

  “Michael…he’s dead, isn’t he.” Vye asked, never opening her eyes.

  “We’re not sure.”

  Vye opened her eyes. “What do you mean, you’re not sure? Poke the body with a stick.”

  “No, that’s the thing. We don’t know where his body is.”

  Chapter 17: Alone

  Landos paced the halls of Hartstone. He was exhausted in a way he never imagined he could be, and yet he knew he wouldn’t sleep. Not for many hours to come. There was still too much to do. And finding the Count’s body was one of those things.

  Landos may not have known where the body was, but he had a good idea about who moved it. He suspected that it was with Flopson, the jester. Who was also missing. He knew Flopson intended no harm to the Count, so that was some comfort, at least. But even with the world turning faster than anyone could handle, it wouldn’t do to have Deliem without a clear leader. Without Michael, or an appropriate heir.

  “Landos,” a soft voice tugged him out of his reverie. It was a voice he loved, but also a voice he dreaded.

  “Sarah,” he turned to her. And Landos didn’t care if the Gods struck him down for thinking it, but she looked more beautiful than ever. Still in full wedding regalia, a violet in her blonde hair. A coral necklace to match her eyes. If he could be granted one wish, it would have been to stand there forever, beholding her in all her splendor.

  But there were no wishes to be granted that night.

  “Are you alright?” she asked, a hand on his arm.

  “Me? I’m... fine. Of course. Are you...?” He didn’t bother finishing the sentence. She didn’t bother answering it.

  “Umm…Sarah,” he said again, after he realized they’d both been silent for too long. “We should move over there.”

  He was pointing to the stairwell, where a couple of guards were standing.

  “What’s wrong with right here?”

  “We should just move over there.” He didn’t say the real answer, “Because I can’t be alone with you.”

  “I need to talk to you,” Sarah said.

  “Well, talk to me,” Landos said.

  “I need to talk to you alone.”

  Landos’ mind raced with all the possibilities. But his convictions were stronger. For now.

  “I’m sorry, I have to go,” Landos said, then scurried down the stairs. Sarah watched him go, her heart a volatile concoction of sorrow and guilt.

  Chapter 18: A Man Of Habit

  Sir Bucklander was one of the most useless people ever to exist. You know the type. No passions, no opinions, no skills, and no instincts. He just sort of was. As though the Gods had determined they needed one more person out there, and just jumbled him together with whatever leftover clay was around. He was a cosmic afterthought.

  Unfortunately, Sir Bucklander was a nobleman. As such, he was allowed to rule a castle. Now, Count Maethran wasn’t an idiot. And Sir Bucklander’s father wasn’t proud. They both agreed that Sir Bucklander would best be suited serving where he could do the least harm. And so, he was appointed to Fort North.

  Fort North was also kind of an afterthought. Even the name was a placeholder. It was so named because it was the northernmost fortification in Rone. Maethran was a large, land-locked County in the center-top of the Kingdom. The Fort was built to discourage Turin attacks. But it was kind of a joke. The Turin never attacked with siege equipment and ordered ranks. As far as the Rone were concerned, they were savages. Fort North was more of a statement than anything. “Hey, you guys. Turin-folk. We’re here. See our big, stone walls? Don’t fuck with us.”

  Count Maethran felt comfortable giving the useless Fort to the useless Knight. What could go wrong?

  So it was that on the first night of summer, Sir Bucklander sat down in the mess hall. He did this not because he was hungry, but because his to-do list was done and it was time to eat. The steward brought in a stew. Bucklander ate.

  “How do you like the food?” the Steward asked.

  “It’s OK,” Bucklander said, noncommittally.

  “Do you want more salt?”

  “Eh,” Bucklander shrugged.

  Then, a soldier came running in, stood beside Sir Bucklander, and yelled, “Sir, we’re under attack!”

  Sir Bucklander furrowed his brow and looked up at the man.

  “Oh,” Bucklander responded. “Perhaps we should...hmm...” He sighed. This commanding a fort thing w
as exhausting.

  “Sir,” the soldier said, “Perhaps you didn’t hear me. We are under attack. An army of almost thirty thousand Turin soldiers is marching over the north hill, and they are heading right for us. We are under siege.”

  “Just hold on a minute,” Bucklander said, “Let me think.”

  Another soldier came running in.

  “Sir,” the second soldier said, “Our food stores have been sabotaged.”

  “Sir,” the first soldier said, “I recommend we send runners now, before we are closed in.”

  “No, no, just wait. I don’t want to do anything rash. Maybe I should finish dinner first?”

  Another soldier came running in. He stood beside the first two soldiers and yelled, “Sir, we’ve just received word that King Vincent, Prince Nathaniel, Princess Helena, and Prince Anthony are dead!”

  Everyone in the room, already shocked at the news from the first two messengers, collectively gasped at this message. Bucklander nodded.

  “Well,” he said, “That is news.”

  And so it was that Fort North was summarily defeated. Everyone was slain. The structure was burned to the ground. And the Turin suffered almost no casualties. When they were done with the Fort, they marched south, toward the heart of the Kingdom.

  Chapter 19: The Regicide

  Vye sat up.

  It was an incredibly painful maneuver. There was no part of it that didn’t hurt, severely. But she had to get on her feet.

  Currently, Calvin, the Castellan with direction sense, was in the room with her. The reason Vye was sitting up was that Calvin had just given her some very disturbing news. The Royal Family was dead.

  “Calvin,” Vye said, “What do you mean?”

  “The King is dead,” he said, shuffling his feet, “Also all his heirs.”

  “All of them!?”

  “Well, we haven’t heard from Princess Emily in Brimford, but everyone else, at least.”

  Vye discovered it hurt a lot just to take a deep breath. She put her hand on her ribs, as though to support them.

  “Oh, my, that hurts,” she announced. She squinted. She tried to think about something else. She tried to pretend there wasn’t any pain.