Kingshold

by D P Woolliscroft

  A scream came from ahead, and looking up, Neenahwi could see a tall silhouette, half as tall again as the tallest of the tribe’s warriors. Tears streaked her cheeks, sooty from the fires lit in the village buildings, as she crawled toward the screaming. She saw her father, and over there, her mother, caught in the grip of an oversized taloned-hand at the end of a bony multi-jointed arm attached to the tall figure. A demon.

  This demon had an insectile head, human male body—but with the legs, feet, and claws of a bird of prey. It was saying something to her mother, but she couldn’t hear what. Her mother screamed, “No!” repeatedly and tried to wriggle free as the demon’s claws pierced her legs and arms.

  Her father ran past her and leaped at the monstrosity with his steel sword (one of the few in her tribe, handed down for generations), but the demon was too fast. It used the figure of her mother to parry the blow from her father while the other taloned-hand reached out and picked him up by the head and threw him away.

  Her father’s body skittered across the floor as the demon released the broken doll of her mother, falling in a tattered lump on the ground. Sobs racked Neenahwi’s body as she saw this unfold.

  How could this happen to so many good people?

  Kanaveen appeared from the shadows, shouting at Greytooth, their shaman and her teacher, who was pushing the warrior away. She could see the look of anguish on Kanaveen’s face as he turned and sprinted away from where her parents had fallen. She knew he’d been sent to escape with her and her brother.

  Greytooth turned to face the demon, and his deep voice filled the air, “I’m here, beast. I’m the one you want. I’ll be your doom.”

  The demon ambled forward, the mandibles of its face clicking together as a high-pitched laugh escaped its mouth. “No, paltry wizard, I haven’t come for you. You served your purpose years ago. I’m here for your daughter.”

  “You shall not have her, demon!” The shaman lifted his arms, and blue arcs of light leapt up from his chest and swirled about his arms before coalescing around his fingers. The light gathered, and then streamed out to strike at the demon, but it danced to the side, faster than he expected, and dodged the attack.

  A second arc of light caught a multi-jointed arm, which withered black and smoldered, but it didn’t stop the creature. Neenahwi could see Greytooth was using all of his power, all of his own precious limited life force against the demon, all self-preservation gone.

  She stood, and a fire in her chest exploded into deep purple flames that surrounded her without burning, her tears became rivers of flame down her face. The demon had closed on Greytooth, and its one remaining good arm flashed out to pierce him in the stomach with its clawed hand. Greytooth cried out and doubled over, agonizing pain visible on his face.

  Neenahwi screamed in shared pain, and the fire rushed out from her in all directions, scouring the land, the demon, her village, and her people from the world. All was purple and red fire.

  All was cleansed.

  She didn’t know how much time had passed since the flames had died down. She was on rocky terrain, the peak of a mountain to her right. Scrub and mountain bushes were aflame; boulders glowed red in the night.

  Where was she?

  Neenahwi turned, winds buffeting her, and she saw the lights of a city below her. Kingshold. That meant she was on Mount Tiston, not the plains of her homeland.

  Her heart was pounding, her breath came shallow and quick, and her hand hurt where she had been gripping onto something for too long. Opening her fingers, she saw the demon gem nestled in her palm.

  Chapter 9

  Hoxteth

  Those mercenaries!

  Mareth scowled at the town crier hollering at the crowd around him. In the short walk through the middle district, three of them had announced the arrival of Lord Eden the following day. Three! He didn’t agree with them simply peddling their services to whatever rich noble had the coin. They were supposed to be in the employ of the crown, as well as serving a higher mistress—the truth. He couldn’t understand how these Criers could abide to be nothing more than a mouthpiece for whomever came along and bought their voice.

  Mareth couldn’t help but shake his head a little to himself. And to think that now people relied on them to understand what was happening in the realm instead of bards like him.

  “Mareth, have you been listening to me?” asked Master Gonal, walking slightly in front of him. “Is it something I said that made you have such a dirty look on your face?”

  In his indignation, Mareth had lost track of where he was for a moment.

  “I’m sorry, Master Gonal, for my wandering attention,” he replied. “I was simply aghast at this news about Lord Eden. It’s being announced like he’s a savior riding into the city.” He knew Gonal was not a fan of Eden; he had already made up his mind on his candidate and that was where they were heading. So, Mareth made sure not to say any positive words about the noble arriving on the morrow, though he did have some respect for Eden’s style. He was sure his entrance would be a spectacle.

  “Ah, yes, I share your distaste for Eden,” said the merchant. “It’ll be an opportunity lost for the people of our kingdom if the new lord protector is one of the establishment. The richest man in Edland, what can he possibly understand about the everyday person? Where would his priorities lie, eh? Well, I’ll tell you. War. That’s how his family made their treasure, and how he gathered more. Now, war can be good for business, but I don’t want my son getting fancy ideas about becoming a knight or another kind of hero. Peace, that’s what we need, so our children can focus on making money.”

  It was a little past noon, and the sun was hot on Mareth’s face. A boy had delivered him a message that morning to meet the merchant at noon, by the fountain in the Square of Queen Linn. They hadn’t met the day before, and he’d been concerned his connection had fallen through. Mareth had been gathering himself to search for the merchant when the messenger had arrived, so that had been a blessed and timely relief.

  But now, meeting at a public place, and then walking to the meeting (no carriage), raised alarm bells about Master Gonal. His blond-bearded friend at the Royal Oak the other night was likely correct in questioning how he was able to vote. He either lived like a miser, or getting the little demon had cost him every penny he owned. But he couldn’t fault the fact that he’d followed through on bringing him to the meeting. Assuming it materialized.

  “When we arrive at Hoxteth’s mansion, I need you to make sure that I do all the talking,” explained Gonal, Mareth nodding along. “I’ll introduce you as my bagman—a place of respect, you understand—that will allow you to remain with me during the meeting. There will be some business that needs to be conducted, but you’ll get to observe and have your view of the man we hope will be our first protector.”

  Mareth suppressed recoiling at the mention of him being a bagman. He vowed he would never stoop so low in reality. An assistant in commerce? Was there no other title he could be given? But it really didn’t matter. How else would he be able to create his chronicle if he couldn’t judge the mettle of these men and women? He needed the meeting.

  They arrived at a stone mansion house, four stories high and twice the size of the Royal Oak, leaded windows with a steep sloped slate roof and turrets at each corner. Outside the thick reinforced front door stood two professional-looking guards, clean shaven, with untarnished chainmail under tabards emblazoned with Hoxteth’s sigil of an unbalanced scale. Rumor had it the judiciary was not too pleased with Hoxteth’s choice of sigil—their balanced scales referring to justice, his unbalanced ones meaning he got the better end of any deal.

  Master Gonal introduced himself to the guards and showed them the pyxie in his pocket (which blew a raspberry in the guard’s face). The entrance routine was successful, to Mareth’s immense relief, and they were escorted into a waiting room. Three other people sat there, whom Mareth pegged as merchants by the hungry looks in their eyes.

  The two of them took
seats in the tastefully decorated room. Wood paneling lined the walls with green-velvet couches and individual chairs in clusters about a space that Mareth considered to be nearly as big as his father’s great hall. Tapestries of great skill hung from the walls. One depicting a dragon fighting a knight on horseback. Another of a broad oak tree with golden apples and children sleeping in its boughs.

  They sat without talking, silence in the air, with only the sounds of the household to be heard. Every ten minutes or so, one of the other men waiting was met by an officious-looking steward to escort them into an adjoining room. Mareth found himself tapping his hands on the arms of the chair or his feet on the floor, which would draw unhappy glances from Gonal.

  “Lord Hoxteth will see you now.” The steward had approached without Mareth noticing. He had been working through a particularly troublesome rhyme in a long-time work in progress regarding a giant he’d once met. The steward addressed Master Gonal, “Thank you for waiting. As you can see, it’s been a rather busy afternoon. You may leave your associate here and collect him once your business has concluded.”

  “Thank you, Master Bales, but this is my bagman, and he’s present for all of my business conversations. I’m sure you can understand the importance of being on hand to execute on any business. He’s new in my employ, but he’s proven himself to be quite exemplary.”

  The Bales man looked Mareth up and down and didn’t seem to be particularly impressed with what he saw. Mareth wasn’t particularly impressed with what he saw, either, but he did suppose that he should have dressed more for the role he had to play.

  He wore the finest clothes he now owned—perhaps a little tight around the middle—but they still vied for quality with that of his supposed master in this charade, which would mark him as unusual. It was hardly his fault, though. He hadn’t been given any warning. Bales gave a little snort, said, “Very well,” and escorted them to the door at the far end of the room where all of the previous attendees had also been led.

  The room they entered was dark and candlelit while the waiting room was bright with light from the many windows, and so, it took a moment for Mareth’s eyes to adjust. They were in a library with a large wooden desk in the center, a man seated behind it with a stack of parchment in front of him, and shelves of leather-bound books lining the walls. The man was small and of middle years, grey hair cut neatly close to his skull, and lean in the face and the waist. Mareth was happy to see he had not succumbed to the typical predilection of the rich to show their wealth in their girth. He wore clothes of black silk with an elegant black, woolen cape, which in the diminished light of the room gave the impression of his pale face floating disembodied in the air. This was obviously Hoxteth.

  Behind him, next to the unlit fireplace, sat a handsome woman in an attractive purple gown, some ten years younger (or her life had been ten years kinder) with black hair braided down her back. She didn’t look up from the book she was reading as Gonal sat down in the chair across from the lord treasurer.

  “Well, well, well. Master Gonal. What a pleasure to see you here.” Hoxteth smiled a thin smile as his guest got comfortable. “It must be what, fifteen years since you last sat opposite me? I trust your bookkeeping skills have improved in the intervening years?”

  “Ha-ha. My lord, it’s a pleasure to see you again. I learnt so much from you. Your kindness in teaching a young man has been immensely valuable to my success today. Nothing to rival you, of course, my lord.” Mareth’s eyes rolled at Gonal’s nervous laughter. He stood by the closed door, a few strides from the action where he thought Gonal likely to pledge his undying love any minute now. “I want you to know you’re the man for me to be the lord protector of our realm. You’ll bring peace and stability and the right environment for business.”

  “Excellent. I’m pleased to hear it. I shall count on your vote in the coming weeks. Was there anything else?”

  “Well, Lord Hoxteth, you taught me that every opportunity is a business opportunity and never to trust anything freely given.” Gonal was quickly trying to dig himself out of his self-made hole. It had looked likely they were going to be ushered out as soon as Gonal had gotten comfortable. “So, yes, you are my favored candidate. But business is business after all. I have a pyxie, and you and your competition want them to call their name at the tally, and so, that has to be worth something…”

  Lord Hoxteth looked directly into Gonal’s eyes without speaking a word. The silence extended, but his face remained impassive.

  “Yes, that’s correct, Gonal. Maybe you did learn from our brief time together. If I understand rightly, you’re still in the wool trade. How would you like to diversify into silks?” Gonal’s head bobbed up and down in acceptance. Was his brief moment of courage fading away? “In that case, I’ll give you two options, and you must choose now. Option one, I’ll give you free use of one of my ships and crew to acquire your first consignment of silks. This is guaranteed at the time when your vote is cast. Option two is dependent on my successful election, but in this case, I’ll grant you a ten-year license from the realm to create and operate a market dedicated to the buying and selling of silks. All business would pass through your halls. Which option will you choose?”

  “My lord, they’re both very generous offers, with obviously different risk and rewards. But I’d be foolish to pass up the opportunity you propose when you become lord protector. I have every confidence you’ll be chosen. How can the civilized population not see you’re the right candidate? Let’s put this in writing, and I’ll cast a vote here in front of you.”

  Hoxteth nodded to the steward standing beside Mareth, who went to a stack of papers on a nearby table and pulled out a pre-prepared parchment. Bales went about inscribing the specifics of the deal while the bard remained motionless.

  Mareth had a newfound respect for Master Gonal. The deal he’d struck would deliver a great return on the investment he’d made in the pyxie. But was that the limit of the conversation? It was hardly the stuff of tales to have a succession of votes bought by favor.

  He noticed Lady Hoxteth was looking at him quite intently, and when he met her gaze, she didn’t look away. She seemed to consider him further before giving a brief smile and returning to her reading.

  Gonal and Hoxteth had now signed the agreement, and the former took the little pyxie out of his traveling pocket and placed it on the desk in front of him.

  “I wish to place my vote for lord protector for Lord Hoxteth,” said Gonal, slowly and carefully.

  “Please state your name.” The pyxie’s voice was rough and gravelly. He wasn’t sure why, but Mareth had expected a high-pitched squeak.

  “I am Master Alborz Gonal.” And with that, the little demon gave a nod, smiled a smile of a pin cushion, and then disappeared in a pop, leaving a faint smell of sulfur behind.

  “Thank you, Master Gonal. I’m pleased to have earned your vote. Master Bales will see you out now. More eligible voters to meet. I’m sure you understand.”

  Hoxteth stood, shook Gonal’s hand, and was guiding him toward his steward and the door. Mareth was disappointed this was it. His window of opportunity to do something, he was not sure what, was disappearing.

  “Wait,” called Mareth, all eyes turning to the man that the rest of the audience had considered to be a temporary part of the furniture. “I mean, Lord Hoxteth, let me introduce myself now that you’ve finished your business. I’m Mareth, a bard of some renown in the right circles, and I’ve taken it as duty to chronicle this historic moment for Edland.”

  “Gonal, what is the meaning of this?” Hoxteth directed his ire toward the man he had just been thanking. “You bring a minstrel into a meeting with us in disguise?”

  “Er, I… was only trying to support the arts, my lord,” Gonal stammered as he gave Mareth a look of combined disgust and anger.

  “It’s my fault, my lord. I asked Master Gonal here to help. And he’s familiar with my work, which helped him understand the cause I serve. I know, my lord
, you’re the favorite to be our new lord protector, and if you’d do me the honor of sharing with me your firsthand thoughts in this saga, then I’d be eternally grateful. And I would, of course, immortalize you in song.”

  Lady Grey had walked to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with her husband. He looked close to anger, but she was more contemplative.

  “You look familiar, Mareth. Have we met before?” she asked. “Where are you from?”

  “I don’t believe we’ve met before, my lady. I’d remember a face so beautiful.” Mareth’s attempts to curry favor with the woman seemed to land on fallow ground with Hoxteth, so he quickly moved on. “But I’m from Bollingsmead. Son of Tomas and Prisanth.”

  “That’s it! I knew you looked familiar.” Lady Grey clapped her hands. “Doesn’t he, my dear? A younger, more dashing version of the fuddy-duddy Tomas Bollingsmead. So, you are a bard, are you? I’m sure your father doesn’t approve!” Mareth didn’t go around calling out his heritage. He knew his father wouldn’t approve.

  “He doesn’t, my lady. But we all have to make sacrifices to achieve our calling, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, of course, very astute. We have all made sacrifices. Dear, follow me for a moment.” Lady Grey led her husband by the arm to the far corner of the room to confer in whispers, glancing over at Mareth, considering him appraisingly, like livestock or the latest fashion.

  While they spoke, Mareth became aware that Bales the steward was behind him, accompanied by two guards, both of whom looked as professional as the guards at the main entrance. Professional enough to see him go the way of a certain senior bookkeeper if this parley didn’t go well.

  After a few minutes, the pair walked past the desk and round to face the bard.

  “Mareth, I don’t approve of how you came to be here,” said Lord Hoxteth, the anger gone from his features, “but after due consideration with my lady wife, I have a proposition for you. I’ll be your patron. Secretly, of course, and in return, you’ll do your work to cast me in the most favorable light and disparage my competitors. You will, of course, have to take your performances to the most reputable establishments in the inner district for the right people to listen to you. Eden is going to throw his considerable wealth at this campaign, and I don’t desire to try to fight him coin for coin. He may have a reputation as a military tactician, but I haven’t gotten where I am today without understanding people. And people believe what you tell them.”