Fletcher (A Prydain novel Book 3)

by AJ Adams

  Fletcher

  By AJ Adams

  Text Copyright @ 2016 AJ Adams

  All rights reserved

  Kindle Edition

  ASIN: B01LZUKWCK

  Final proof edited by Stylus Ink

  Disclaimer

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  License Statement

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Please note this book contains scenes of erotica, hardcore brutality, dubious consent and reluctant sex. It is for adults only.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter: Fletcher, a month earlier

  Chapter One: Fletcher

  Chapter Two: Lind

  Chapter Three: Fletcher

  Chapter Four: Lind

  Chapter Five: Fletcher

  Chapter Six: Lind

  Chapter Seven: Fletcher

  Chapter Eight: Lind

  Chapter Nine: Fletcher

  Chapter Ten: Lind

  Chapter Eleven: Fletcher

  Chapter Twelve: Lind

  Chapter Thirteen: Fletcher

  Chapter Fourteen: Lind

  Chapter Fifteen: Fletcher

  Chapter Sixteen: Lind

  Chapter Seventeen: Fletcher

  Chapter Eighteen: Lind

  Chapter Nineteen: Fletcher

  Chapter Twenty: Lind

  Chapter Twenty-One: Fletcher

  Chapter Twenty-Two: Lind

  Chapter Twenty-Three: Ware

  Chapter Twenty-Four: Lind

  Epilogue

  Want to stalk me?

  The World of Prydain

  Fletcher is set in Prydain, an imaginary place that combines Anglo-Saxon England with Medieval England, the Teutonic Kingdom and the Viking Age. As such, there are fortified cities, Guilds, slaves, lots of different gods, and forests filled with wolves, bears, and possibly elves.

  To really mess things up, the people use medieval weaponry but they also have muskets and explosive black powder. Also, everyone in Prydain speaks the same language.

  So when you read this, please suspend your disbelief and enjoy the story for what it is: a fantasy.

  Also, if you like Fletcher, check out Beast, the other Prydain novel that tells the story of why Brighthelme was razed.

  Chapter: Fletcher, a month earlier

  I was dumbstruck, gazing over the ravaged earth. My family’s farm was gone, and the forge, the workshop and the fieldworkers’ cottages, too. The little shrine had been smashed and burned. Looking beyond it, the sheds had also been destroyed.

  There had been fifty people working here, thirty more in the shrine, and now it was desolate but for Marta, an old woman barely in her senses, who’d lived wild in our woods for as long as anyone could remember.

  “Everyone’s gone?” My voice came from a million miles away. “All of them?”

  “They came from the north,” she quavered. “Twenty men, wearing purple devices with black ravens. They stole Apollo’s sacred arrow.”

  “And my family? My father? My mother? Owen, Lorraine and Pedr? The children? The people in the shrine?”

  “All gone.”

  I could feel my guts rip apart. A cold flame of horror washed through me. I just couldn’t accept it. “Everyone? They’re all dead?”

  The crone cowered and pointed. “There!”

  It was a funeral pyre. Not a small one used for a single person. This had been a huge pyre some twelve paces by twelve paces. My family, everything I’d loved, longed to come home to, was gone. Burned to ashes.

  “Who did this?” I snarled. “Describe them to me! Every detail!”

  Rage flamed through me, possessing my soul. The need for vengeance banked and built, searing with the lust for destruction. I’d find them and kill them all. Every single cursed one of them.

  Chapter One: Fletcher

  She was climbing down a sheer wall. No gear, no shoes. Just fingers and toes, gripping invisible ledges and outcrops. There are lizards in the far eastern continent that do that, but this was the first time I’d seen a human perform the feat.

  She wasn’t carrying anything, so she wasn’t a thief. It was interesting, but I had more important matters to attend to.

  The smith didn’t notice her, being too intent on me. “You’re from Llanfaes? We don’t get many of your kind here.”

  I knew why but deflected his curiosity. “Is that so? I’ve been abroad for some time.”

  “We trade, of course,” the smith said lightly. “But the road is rough, especially in winter.”

  “Yes, there is still snow on parts of the road.”

  “We don’t usually see traders this early,” the smith hinted.

  I wasn’t going to tell him that vengeance had driven me to defy the weather. Or that I’d made the journey alone, knowing rain and lingering ice would deter all but the most lonely and desperate of robbers.

  I kept on point. “Tell me, Master Smith, have you seen a troop of horsemen? Dressed in purple and black? The horses are thoroughbreds. Real quality.”

  Smiths adore horses, and this one was no different. “A troop of horsemen, you say? In purple and black?”

  “Yes, with black ravens on their devices.”

  The smith’s face cleared. “Of course. Yes. That would be Sir Ranulf’s men.”

  Finally I had a name. It had been worth venturing into Caern after all. “Any idea where I can find him?”

  “He’s a Tanweld man,” the smith warned me.

  My heart sank. I’d been hoping they were unemployed mercenaries. Those I could have tracked, confronted and killed easily. Tanweld, however, consisted of a thousand miles of thickly forested hills and vales, filled with towers, keeps and outlaws as well as wolves, bears and other dangers. If the tales were right, there were darker things there, too. Elves, some say, and men with the spirits of wolves.

  It would take weeks or months just to locate Ranulf. But seeing I no longer had a family waiting, I had a lifetime to assure my revenge.

  “What do you know about Sir Ranulf?”

  The girl was clamped to a wall, waiting as a maid beat a cloth out of a window. She must have had claws instead of fingers.

  “He lives in a fortified manor, deep in the forest, and he never leaves home,” the smith told me. “The whole place is hidden, accessed by a secret path. And even if you get there and get in, you won’t get into his tower.”

  “A real fortress, is it?”

  “The best! The dukes would pay dearly to get Ranulf, but he’s too clever for them. He sits snug and secret like a spider, sending men to do his bidding.”

  “His bidding?”

  “He collects treasures. They say his tower is filled with gold.”

  Like Apollo’s arrow. The shrine had been there for generations, but the arrow had been acquired while I was on my travels. From Haven, the old crone had said, a city far in the north.

  I couldn’t bring back my family, but I could get the arrow back and build a new shrine for it in their memory.

  “I guess Sir Ranulf must have people at his gate every day, offering to sell heirlooms.”

  The smith laughed. “Not likely! Nobody goes there, I tell you. It’s hidden.”

  “The robbing is part of the pleasure?”

  “Now you’re beginning to understand Ranulf! He’s a mean bugger, he is.”

  Getti
ng to Ranulf would be difficult, but there was an upside. If he’d been a real knight, a noble, I couldn’t have touched him. Only nobles can challenge nobles. But the title was self-bestowed. As he was a Tanweld man, an outlaw, I could kill him openly.

  Murder is punished, but I’d get away with this. It’s the same all over Prydain, no matter which of the nine cities you’re in: a blood feud allows a challenge and a kill. There are no consequences; the law accepts it as justice. After all, the gods smile on the one who has the right.

  And if ever a man had a right to revenge, it was I. “No fortress is truly secret and no tower is impregnable.”

  The smith gave me a sour look. “Is that so? I suppose a Llanfaes man can go where he pleases.”

  Right. Llanfaes had declared a dispute against Caern seven years ago. I had been serving my duke, and when the peace treaty negotiations turned sour, I’d led his archers into battle. It had been fast, brutal, and we’d razed most of the city. In fact, the poorer quarters were still a mess.

  A peace was formally in place, but it still rankled. Llanfaes men are well known for their fighting skills. We’re the biggest source of mercenaries in Prydain, but we’re not stupid. Going into Caern was dangerous, and going in alone might easily prove suicidal. I had to be careful.

  The smith scanned me again, taking in the bow, the fighting leathers and the arm guard as well as my embroidered hose and velvet-lined cloak. “Mercenary?” he asked carefully.

  “Fletcher.”

  He sucked in his breath. “Are you here officially?”

  “Oh no. I’m here on my own business.”

  “I guess the Guild district is safe then.”

  So he remembered it was I who’d burned it down. We were officially at peace, but old hatreds linger, so I chose not to confirm or deny my role in the dispute.

  I also needed the smith on my side, so I buttered him up. “I was thinking that with three men from Caern, I could take Ranulf. The job should be simple.”

  It was gross flattery; it would take two dozen men to take even a small tower, but the smith melted. “By all accounts, Raven’s Keep is special. If you don’t get eaten by werewolves or lost in the forest, the manor is surrounded by a moat and wall. The tower itself is ten floors, black stone, smooth as glass, thicker than a country yokel.” The smith was a city man through and through. “It’s impervious to assault.”

  “Sounds secure.”

  “Why are you interested in a Tanweld rogue?”

  Never let a target know he’s being hunted. “Oh, his people bypassed me on the road, and I liked the look of his horses, that’s all.”

  “He’s got a black heart, but he does have everything of the best.”

  The girl was halfway down the tower now. Nobody had noticed her—yet. Someone was bound to look up, though. She’d have to jump, and there was nothing to break her fall but cobbles. She’d smash bones if she lost her grip.

  “How would a man set about finding Ranulf? He must do business somehow.”

  The smith shrugged. “I’ve no idea. There are rumours, that’s all.”

  “Where do I find his men?”

  “Not here! The duke wouldn’t allow it.”

  So I had no leads. I’d go to Tanweld city and look there.

  “You’re looking for work?” The smith was a shameless gossip. “Seeing there’s a peace, our duke would be glad of your service.” His tone was formal; he didn’t believe what he was saying. “Anyone would welcome Ware Fletcher.”

  “Actually, I did some work for his constable, Eward Greenwood, when Caern disputed with Volgard.”

  Again, it was the right thing to say. “You worked for our duke and his constable, did you?” The smith became quite chummy. “Well, well. Welcome then, brother!”

  Maybe that was the way to get to Ranulf. Like the smith, I’m a craftsman. Ware Esyllt from Llanfaes, at your service. I’m a member of the Llanfaes Guild, a senior member, so I’m better known as Ware Fletcher. It’s a matter of respect. All master craftsmen are named after their art.

  “Our duke is away at present, visiting his cousin at Haven. He should be back in a few days, though.”

  The smith had decided to be helpful. I was hoping he would be, banking on it, really, because as he was a member of the Caern Guild, we were connected. It’s a brotherhood that survives even disputes. Mind you, it’s strained when you enter into the actual fighting, particularly when you burn down the Guild House as I had.

  Still, having fought for Caern at Volgard, I had clearly redeemed myself in the smith’s eyes and he was now interrogating me for news.

  “You’ve been travelling,” the smith hinted. “Anywhere interesting?”

  “I’ve spent the last two years in the far eastern continent.”

  The smith sighed. “I’ve never been out of Caern.”

  Guild members tend to work in their hometowns, but fletchers are different. Some of us set up workshops and have clients come to us, but many of us follow the drum and create supplies in the field for our liege.

  Me, I worked for my duke for five years, and after that I went wandering. After the Caern-Llanfaes dispute, I worked in most of the nine cities before venturing across the ocean. I’ve been all over the far eastern continent, too.

  I sometimes fill large orders, but mostly I design and custom build arrows for special purposes. My Annihilators, which punch through armour, and my Flamethrowers that bear fire for two hundred paces have made my name known all over Prydain. And they haven’t yet seen the Thunderclap, my new creation that shatters stone.

  As you might expect, I’m never short of work. Every duke and his constable know me, and they’re always trying to get me to join their troops permanently.

  Some are a bit over forceful. I’ve been imprisoned a few times, and one eastern noble threatened to blind me after I made an arrow for him that will light a battlefield at night for up to fifteen minutes. He thought my losing my sight would stop others from profiting from my work. But as you can see, I’m free and with all my faculties intact because I know how to deal with trouble.

  “Well, after being in foreign parts, it must be nice to be back in civilisation.” The smith wanted to hear that home was better than abroad. “There’s no better place in the world than Prydain.”

  There was no point in telling him about the fascinating sights I’d seen. “True.”

  “Even if you did your best to destroy us.” The smith looked, paused and then shrugged. “Well, the war is over.” A forgiving man, the smith. “But I heard you were going home to Llanfaes and setting up your own workshop.”

  And I had, only to discover there was nothing left. I couldn’t talk about it. Just thinking about it tore my gut. Rage flooded through me, burning like flame.

  “Are you all right?” The smith had stepped back. He was looking frightened. Did I offend you, Master Fletcher?”

  I swallowed away the loss and fury, casually deflecting him. “No, of course not.”

  The smith swallowed and said quietly, “I wouldn’t like to join the Serif of Flamestead.”

  That’s the far eastern noble and despot who thought of blinding me. When he told me of his plan, I asked him to grant me one last look at my work, and then I strangled him with my bow. I took what I was owed, and then I burned down his palace to cover my escape. I guess word got round.

  “There’s no risk of that, Master Smith.”

  At that, he relaxed and smiled. “So, you’re back in Prydain. Are you planning to go home and start your workshop?”

  Given the story of the Serif had reached Caern, it was vital Ranulf didn’t hear I was coming for him. I was carefully casual. “Oh, there’s plenty time to settle down.” And I would, after getting my revenge. “What’s Tanweld like these days?”

  “Worse than ever.” The smith was examining Wolf’s hock. That’s my horse. He’s a big black stallion with white socks, and so well trained that he was standing patiently in the lane, unencumbered by restraints, while the smit
h trimmed his new shoes.

  I’d need to figure out how to get to Ranulf. Ten years of war had taught me there are ways and ways of dealing with conflict. If you’ve got overwhelming numbers, you can walk all over the enemy, no problem. You’ll lose people, but if you shove the arrow fodder to the front, you protect your assets who swoop in for the actual cleanup. If the enemy has the advantage, you need subterfuge, or it’s you being crushed.

  Me, I’m a good talker, and when it comes to subterfuge, I can hold my own, too. “You know, I did like that bay,” I told the smith. “Maybe I’ll buy him. Where should I start looking for Ranulf?”

  There was a yell, and a parcel of liveried servants came running out, led by a seneschal dressed in rich red velvet robes. The girl looked down, they looked up, and there was more yelling.

  “What in Wotan’s name is going on out there?” The smith was lowering Wolf’s hock, attracted by the cries across the lane. “By His spear! Look at that!”

  The girl was sliding sideways over the smooth stone, moving twenty feet above the cobbles. Another second and she’d drop on to the roof of the bakery, leaving her clear to jump into the market square beyond.

  The seneschal saw her getting away. “Get the wench down!”

  At his word, a lanky page threw up his staff. It bounced off the girl’s hand, and as she hung in the air, still clinging to the stone, a second staff knocked her off. Incredibly, she tumbled through the air, flattening her body, landing on her feet and rolling rather than shattering limbs. I have excellent eyesight, so I got a good look at her.

  She was small and trim and had long, slender hands and feet. Her hair was blue-black, falling dead straight to her shoulders, rather than waist-length as was the fashion. From the back she might be mistaken for a boy, but from the front she was all girl. A long lean face, tanned by the sun, was dominated by smoky round eyes and pretty arched brows. She had full lips coloured pale rose.

  She was pretty enough, but the furious frown made her look hard. The collar around her neck explained that. She was a thrall, and by the seneschal’s presence, she was the property of the Duke of Caern. It was also the ducal wall she was climbing down, so by the look of it, she was a runaway.