Kingshold

by D P Woolliscroft

  Kingshold

  D.P. Woolliscroft

  Copyright © 2018 by D.P. Woolliscroft

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  For Haneen and Liberty, who are everything to me.

  Contents

  1. Endings And Beginnings

  2. The Privy Council

  3. Snake Belly Visions

  4. Meeting The Wizard

  5. Merchant Gossip

  6. Uncertain Return

  7. Time To Stop Procrastinating

  8. Foolish Old Man

  9. Hoxteth

  10. Errands

  11. Tin Man

  12. Twilight Exiles

  13. Assassin

  14. The Diminishing Privy Council

  15. News Travels Fast

  16. We The People

  17. What Would Jyuth Do?

  18. Demoncrazy

  19. A Wizard’s Anger

  20. Lady Grey’s Proposition

  21. Bartholomew

  22. Coming Out

  23. Broken

  24. The Interest Of Wizards

  25. Reunions

  26. Spelunking

  27. Unedar Halt

  28. Limits Of Power

  29. The Rally

  30. Juggernaut

  31. Assassin In The Night

  32. I Predict A Riot

  33. A Difficult Knight

  34. Arrest

  35. Running Toward Trouble

  36. Ambush

  37. Not Prepared

  38. The Salty Hull

  39. Partial Revenge

  40. Fire

  41. The Draco-Turtle Awakes

  42. Turtle Town

  43. Naming And Shaming

  44. Duel

  45. Goodbyes

  46. Victory

  47. Your Nation Calls

  48. One Last Night

  Epilogue

  Call to Action

  Glossary

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by D.P. Woolliscroft

  Chapter 1

  Endings And Beginnings

  The king and queen looked down from the Floral Gate, their features bereft of emotion as the people of Kingshold celebrated in the street before them. Mareth stood at the side of the cobbled road known as the Lance (both for its arms and armor merchants and that it stretched in a dead straight line from the Inner to the Outer Wall). Considering the scene around him, he gave passing attention to the ache behind his eyes. Another late night at the Swallow and Sixpence.

  It was said, when King Ronald had wed the then Lady Tulip, that Kingshold had really partied. Hundreds of bonfires, minstrels, dancing. Good old cavorting. Unfortunately, Mareth had missed out on that particular celebration, not being in the city at the time. That was back in his adventuring days, but he had heard about it on his return; after all, it was his job to gather stories as a Bard from the College of Longford. Mareth had just woken up to the impromptu party across the city (outside of the Upper Circle, of course; the rich preferred their parties indoors); it promised to make the royal wedding look like a harvest festival.

  But the king did not smile to see such joy in his subjects. And the queen wore her distinctive frown of disapproval. She was known to detest the sight of commoners, as she would put it.

  Five years ago, the king’s reign had begun with much enthusiasm from the general populace—nobility to royal servant, merchant to thief—what with Roland being the beloved son of King Randolph, widely regarded as one of the wisest rulers of Kingshold in a thousand years. Mareth didn’t know if things went downhill because Roland married Tulip, or if it just took him a little while to get into his incompetent stride, but after a year, the honeymoon was over. The hike in taxes, the associated crucifixions for non-payment of said taxes, and the stories of excess that seeped from the palace like pus from a boil created a hatred of the royal couple not experienced since the Red Queen killed hundreds of citizens over one weekend centuries past.

  Mareth looked up to gaze at the royal couple in the evening sun. It was nearly the summer solstice, and the days were long. Long enough where he would wake up in the light of the afternoon—usually hung over as he was now—stay up through the night, and head back to his flop house after the sun had risen. But he had told himself many times, those were the hours of a bard. When people drink, they want to hear song and story, and people drink through the night. He didn’t need the ale, or the whiskey, but no one wanted to mix with someone in a drinking room who wasn’t drinking. Obviously. And so, the occasional headache, and maybe some nausea, were just professional hazards. He shielded his eyes as he looked up, considering how he liked the royal couple much more today than he had yesterday, or even the day before.

  It seemed like that was the opinion held by most of the throng around him. One man—obviously drunk, with a scraggly black beard over a pockmarked face—shouted something incomprehensible in the direction of the royal couple, and then hurled a turnip. It whistled past their faces with nary a batted eyelid.

  It was always amazing how a head or two on a spike could improve the mood of so many. And it wasn’t every day that the king and queen were the crow food.

  Of course, this could be a short-lived exuberance. Who knew what tomorrow would bring? Would they be trading one turd for a big steaming cow pat?

  Mareth took a rolled cigarette out of his pocket—half smoked already—and asked a smith’s assistant for a light. As he leaned against the wall of the smithy, the smoke made his head spin and his throat rough. He closed his eyes, lights dancing against his lids. His dream from last night resurfaced. In it he had written a poem, which was so eloquent, so vivid and heart wrenching, it started a civilian rebellion. Thousands of common people rose up against the king and the nobles of Edland, all motivated by his words like the bards of old. Mareth didn’t necessarily think of himself as a revolutionary. After all, he’d grown up in relative comfort compared to most. But it had been a long time since he had left his father’s house and made his way out into the world. What he had observed since then—literally and figuratively—stunk. No, not a revolutionary, more of an agitator or a herald of what could come.

  And then he had woken up today—later than probably nine tenths of the city—to find the object of his hatred cast down! How inconvenient! He considered it a shame he had not finished that poem. One particular stanza caused many lost months and numerous visits to the Giant’s Toe in Four Points to lubricate the words to the page. And now, someone else would take the plaudits for the deaths of the twisted pair. But who? There had not been street fighting, or fires in the palace, or other evidence of a coup, to accompany the deaths of the royal couple.

  The cigarette had made him feel ill. Mareth dashed around the corner into an alley and vomited, but nothing but bile was forthcoming.

  He should have eaten.

  He should stop smoking.

  He needed a drink.

  He needed more to his life than this squalid existence!

  When Mareth had completed his studies, the dean had high hopes for him, even offered him employment at the college, but adventure had called. Back then it wasn’t enough to tell the stories. Mareth had wanted the stories to be about him. These days, Mareth still desired the fame of epic bards like Garm the Glorious and Malia Silk Tongue, those whose portraits adorned the walls of the great college dining hall, and who had also been once-in-a-generation Song Weavers like him. But now he’d be content for his stories to be about anything but hi
m. The adventuring life had proven too painful.

  Still, the question lingered. How did the heads of the king and queen magically appear on spikes without any violence elsewhere? There had to be a story here that he could be the one to write. It might not be as big as something to ignite a peasant rebellion, but a bit of fame, fortune, and maybe a companion for the night would be better than his current situation. He considered this to be a good plan. But where to start?

  Wiping the spittle from his beard with his sleeve, and walking back out onto the Lance—the contents of his stomach left behind—he considered where he was and the viable options. The royal couple now called the Floral Gate home, so Market Street was just up there, and the Royal Oak couldn’t be more than five minutes away. There was always a better class of drinker in the Royal Oak, and Mareth considered that would be quieter than the streets right now. Not that he was planning on having a drink. No, he just needed to eat. And where better to gather research for his new tale than in a tavern, the place where the gossip of the city flowed before circling the drain. Lovable rogues with rumors aplenty. Traders with secrets fresh from the palace ready to confide in him after sharing a tankard or two. But that was just part of the job, too. He loosely retied his shoulder-length auburn hair behind his head and checked his green trousers and jerkin to make sure there weren’t too many visible stains. After all, he didn’t want to look out of place.

  Mareth, feet already moving him in the direction of the Royal Oak, stopped in his tracks. He remembered he would need to apologize to Jules for what happened last time. He couldn’t recall the details of what it was he had done, though he knew it was something. But she’d forgiven him at least three other times in the past, so he was sure it would be alright.

  And so, he continued on his way, passing a broad tree, snapdragons sheltering underneath. A small taste of nature’s color in the stone-grey city. Mareth gathered up the yellow flowers, a gift to ease admittance into Jules’s good graces once more.

  Chapter 2

  The Privy Council

  The big old man rapped the table with the ring adorning his right hand, stopping the murmuring and bringing attention back to him. He looked in sprightly health; clear skin with strong arms, broad chest and barrel-like belly. His white hair long, full, and tied back, with a close-cropped white beard. A pendant—a large blue stone surrounded by strange sigils—hung around his neck, drawing Hoskin’s gaze. The Amulet of Jyuth, worn, of course, by Jyuth himself, the title given to all of the magi who had stood behind the throne of Kingshold for as long as the records went back. Some people said Jyuth was one man, but how could that be when there had been someone with that name as long as Edland had existed?

  Hoskin knew the scholarly debates well. He had read every record in the palace he could lay his hands on during those interminable childhood summers when he and his mother would leave their estate and journey to Kingshold. They would stay in the palace because he was son to Huth, lord chancellor to King Randolph. Being son of the king’s right hand opened almost all doors in the palace, and few people cared about the dusty rooms housing the histories of Edland, and so, Hoskin had frequently escaped to his places of solitude to read of histories, good and bad. He remembered thinking how marvelous it would be to merely observe life and record it for future scholars without having to be involved.

  But he was involved. Up to his armpits, as the animal doctor at the family estate would say. Hoskin sat at the far end of a long wooden table—newly constructed by order of the former King Roland, who had taken a disliking to the ancient one before it—from where stood Jyuth. Hoskin’s appearance, a stark contrast to the wizard, appeared rather like a malnourished donkey: long, skeletal and decidedly grey. But this donkey was now chancellor instead of his father.

  Another rap on the table and the other members of the privy council turned their attention to the old man.

  “Stop this chattering and nattering. Stop this gurgling of worries and whinges.” Jyuth did not raise his voice, but the tone boomed deep in Hoskin’s bones. “You all know as well as I, Roland was an evil shit, not even one tenth the man of his father. And you are better off without him.”

  Hoskin had noticed Jyuth had been agitated since he had returned to the city not five days past, after a long absence from the court at Kingshold.

  “And you, Cockhead, or whatever your name is. I know what you are thinking. You’re new here. I can see it bubbling up in your brain, the way your eyes keep shifting from one of your friends to the next, wondering who will be first to ask who the fuck said an old man has the power over the throne.” The wizard leaned forward over the table to stare down his target. “Am I right?”

  “Err…my name is Sir Penshead…your honor?” said the knight, dressed in neck-to-toe chainmail under a green tabard emblazoned with a white shield bearing the crest of Kingshold. The newest addition to the privy council was young and dashing, but still finding his place in court after winning Roland’s Golden Tourney last year and claiming, in the eyes of Hoskin, at least, the worst job in the whole kingdom as a prize. “I am the knight commander of the city guard. I know it is Lord Beneval who is the commanding officer of the royal guard, and so, I don’t have the right to say anything here, but I don’t understand why you haven’t been clapped in irons. How can a ceremonial title—”

  “Ceremonial! Hah! Boy, you don’t know anything. You’re from some upland sheep-bothering backwater, and you’re too dim-witted to take the cue of one of your elders and betters around the table here.” Jyuth walked around behind the knight and leaned over his shoulder to whisper in his ear. To Penshead’s credit, he didn’t flinch. “I am this city. I am this kingdom. If it weren’t for me, you would all be the thralls of Pyrfew or slaves in a southern land by now. And if it weren’t for me coming along every couple of hundred years and resetting the clock on whichever royal dynasty inevitably becomes so corrupted they do ugly things to dogs or small boys, then you would understand what it’s like to live under a mad king.”

  Hoskin had heard Jyuth referring to himself as one person through history before, but he considered it an affectation. He would not have argued that the man who was holding the balls of everyone around this table was indeed much older than he looked, but it boggled belief one person could be centuries old. Jyuth walked back to his position at the head of the table. Penshead shrank back in his chair slightly. He would likely never admit to being afraid of an old man, but Lords Beneval, Uthridge (the general royal) and Ridgton (the sea marshal) were keeping their mouths closed, and so, it must have finally occurred to him it might be wise to follow suit. As the wizard saw the reaction he was hoping for, he switched his attention and his eyes swept across the other men in the room. Hoskin crossed his fingers under the table and hoped he wouldn’t be called out. He sat in his usual position at the other head of the table, typically opposite the king, but today the wizard had that place. Hoskin had the three martial privy council appointees to his left. To his right sat two men who couldn’t be more different.

  Lord Hoxteth was a small, thin man—not an ounce of excess on his frame—widely regarded as one of the canniest merchants in the whole of the Jeweled Continent. This was how Hoxteth had risen to the privy council, initially as the representative of the Merchants’ Guild, and then most recently taking on the role of treasurer to the kingdom.

  Next to Lord Hoxteth sat Aebur, a tall, fat man who perspired so much it was possible to see lines of dampness in his shirt, and though he artificially enhanced his scent, the sweetness of the flower water and the sour stench of sweat created a cloying smell that irritated Hoskin from two seats away. Jyuth’s gaze settled on the fat man, and, for once, Hoskin’s finger-crossing had worked.

  “So, it’s Aebur, right? The new spymaster.” Jyuth paused and only proceeded once Aebur slowly nodded. “I know about you, Aebur. I know the things you did for Roland, and let me make it clear. I. Don’t. Approve.”

  Aebur mopped at his forehead with a silk handkerchief while
he tried to remain calm.

  “I don’t approve, but I will give you the benefit of the doubt you were only following orders. But you’ve been warned now, and I only warn someone once. Now, prove to me your worth and tell me what your ears are telling you in the city about the current situation.”

  “M’lord, there are some rumors amongst the populace, from foreign assassins to sex play gone wrong, but the story most repeated is the wizard is back, and he has brought the true king’s heir to replace the tainted couple who died yesterday. Of course, this story has actually occurred at least three times in the past, so no wonder it’s so quick to be repeated. Is this true, my lord Jyuth? Do you hide an illegitimate son of Randolph ready to take the crown?”

  “Aebur, let me let you in on a little secret. There has never been a true king’s heir. Each time, there has never been a blood relation who wasn’t crooked.” Jyuth walked around the windowless room as he expounded, passing in front of hunting scenes caught in tapestry that served to make the privy council chamber less oppressive. “So, I find a genuine soul with a smart head on their shoulders, and then I teach them how to be a good king or queen. They usually do a passing job of raising their children in the right way, but by the third generation, it often goes to pot. And so, no, this time I do not have a child hiding behind my robes.”