Kingshold

by D P Woolliscroft

  “Now, how long have you been avoiding me?”

  Motega looked sheepish. “About two weeks now. We arrived from Carlburg a few days after the king was pruned. But I know what you’re thinking; I promise I have not been back here since I left. And I was going to see you. It’s just been one thing after another since we got here.”

  “Really? I know how one thing quite often follows another when you put your mind to it. You could have written and sent a messenger sometime! I’ve heard various stories I thought might be you and your little friends over the years. I assume it was you three who stole the Bishop of Tigro’s golden whip a couple of years ago?”

  “How did you know about that?” he asked, genuinely concerned. “If you know, then others might know. And if some of them are the wrong sort of people, it could be very uncomfortable for us.”

  “Motega, isn’t it about time you grew up and stopped this gallivanting around?” she asked as she perched on the edge of a bed. Motega joined her. “It doesn’t even look like it’s made you rich. You’re just avoiding having any purpose in your life.”

  “We’ve got some money put aside, sis, don’t worry. And what else would I do? You know what you’re doing with your life. You’ve known for years. You’re the chosen one of Jyuth, the only apprentice he’s ever had. I’m sure you two get up to all kinds of magical adventures together. Father and daughter, dancing with unicorns…” Motega didn’t want to get upset with his sister, but she knew which wounds would be sore. And she wasn’t the only one who reminded him about his life choices.

  “You know he thinks of you as his son, too, don’t you?” she said. “I know he would like to see you.”

  “I don’t think so. You were always his favorite. You were the reason he rescued us. If it weren’t for you, then I would have been thrown into a pit long ago,” he said, but Motega tried to smile. “Anyway, let’s not fight. I take it one decision at a time and see where it takes me. You might not like it, but look, we’re in the same place at the same time to see the same person. That’s got to mean something.”

  “I guess so. Pattern or plan?” she asked. Motega tilted his head with a quizzical look on his face. “It’s something Jyuth and I have discussed. Is there a pattern that links these kinds of events, or is there some grand plan? Destiny, if you like.”

  “You know what I think, sis. You overthink.” Now his smile was genuine, healthy white teeth on display. “Let’s just enjoy being together. Why not enjoy being on an adventure with me for once?” The bell of the nearby clock tower struck five. “Speaking of which, we have our daily gathering now. Come and join us, learn more about what we’re doing.”

  Motega sat next to Trypp after pulling up a chair for his sister. Mareth, Alana, Petra, Jules, Dolph, and Florian were already seated, tankards of ale in front of them, and it seemed like they had begun without him. Someone he didn’t recognize spoke to the group.

  “…a number of meetings today. Lady Grey has presented the previous proposals agreed with Lord Hoxteth to each, and they have, in principle, agreed. But they do want to meet with you, my lord.”

  Motega nudged Trypp in the ribs and leaned over to whisper a question. “Who is he?” He eyed the man. Thin, straight, and with the look of a lawyer. He was the kind of person Motega would usually avoid.

  “That’s Folstencroft. Sent by Grey,” muttered Trypp out of the side of his mouth, trying to pay attention to what the man was saying.

  “Please, here at this table, you can call me Mareth. When will we meet with them?”

  “Lady Grey thinks it would be best to host a reception in a week,” said Folstencroft. “It’ll help us gauge the number of supporters, and also let you avoid having to meet with them all at once.”

  “Has there been any pushback on the agreed terms?” asked Trypp. “It’s been a little while since Hoxteth’s death, and I’m sure each of those merchants have been to see the others to see what return they can get on their investments.”

  “There were a few who wished to renegotiate terms, and so, Lady Grey took the privilege of adjusting where she thought it necessary. She was able to strike a better deal in a few cases, I might add. It would seem many of the other candidates don’t look favorably on the merchant class.”

  “I saw it firsthand,” interjected Neenahwi. “Oh, I’m Neenahwi, by the way. I’m a friend of Alana. And I guess I’m also the sister to this lump,” she said, pointing her thumb at Motega. “As I was saying, I met with all of the candidates, and each of them thought merchants were a boil on the beautiful arse of Kingshold.”

  “Ahem, yes, I’m sure, Lady Neenahwi,” said Folstencroft, visibly uncomfortable and struggling for a suitable response. “Lady Grey will be most interested to know you’re here.”

  “I’m sure she will,” she said and smiled at the secretary, “and I’m sure you’ll enjoy telling her.”

  Petra was up next, and Motega half listened as she recounted how they had now met with all of the district supervisors, but a good part of his attention was just focused on the warm shoulder touching his own.

  It wasn’t that he hadn’t recognized how much he’d missed his sister while away, his only flesh and blood in the whole world. It was just that he had done such a great job of balling up any emotion and pushing it away into a dark place. He’d left all those years ago because he didn’t feel like he was his sister’s biggest priority anymore.

  Her studies with Jyuth took up most of her time once they had the luxury of being somewhere safe from harm. He wasn’t deluded enough to think anything had changed now. He was sure she spent most of her time with the old wizard and would do so in the future. So, at some point, he’d probably slip away again, but for now, it was good to have his sister and his friends around him.

  He’d been looking in Petra’s direction while she was talking, and he realized she’d finished a minute ago, and now he was just staring. She mouthed silently, “Are you alright?” and he gave a little nod as he came back to what was happening.

  Alana was talking. “From what Folstencroft and I have calculated, we have Eden leading the race. Unsurprisingly. He has more than half of the nobles currently committed, more of the other merchants or independently wealthy votes than we do, and he can probably call on half of the guilds, especially the higher guilds.

  “If we assume we can rely on all twenty of the merchants we’ve met with in the past two days, also get half of the guilds and be able to organize all twenty of the city districts to be able to vote, then we are fifteen votes behind. We think there are probably another fifty or so people who could vote. Not counting nobles currently on their way here to vote for Eden, that have yet to get their pyxie from Lord Jyuth. So, we’d have to get more than two-thirds of the undecideds. Not taking into account if other candidates drop out, their noble supporters would likely switch to Eden.”

  Motega watched Mareth’s shoulders slump as Alana walked through the numbers. “Well, shit, Alana,” Mareth said, his head in his hands now. “We’re only three days in. Do you mean we’re done?”

  “No one is ready to quit, Mareth, but it’s uphill. I think we have to recognize that so we can address it,” explained Alana. “We need to get some nobles over to our cause, and we need to get those other undecided voters. And, we still have to organize thousands of ordinary citizens to contribute to their district.”

  Florian whistled. “That’s a lot to do. What about delaying some of those nobles on their way from the other side of Edland? We could probably stop a handful of votes for Eden.”

  “No,” said Mareth forcefully, “that’s the kind of situation where something gets out of hand and people get hurt. If that happens, we’re done for.”

  “There is something else I don’t think anyone has considered,” said Neenahwi.

  “What is it, my lady?” said Alana, “Folstencroft and I went through it in detail this afternoon, and I was using what Jyuth himself has been telling me.”

  “Well, he hasn’t thought about t
his either, or if he has, he’s decided not to volunteer it,” said Neenahwi, pausing for dramatic effect. Once she had everyone’s attention she continued. “The announcement said anyone who owns property within three leagues of the palace. Everyone has been focused on those in the city above ground. But Unedar Halt is within three leagues of the palace.”

  “The dwarves?” Mareth leaned forward. “But why would they want to be involved?”

  “I don’t know. But if you could give them a reason, there are probably tens of families who meet the rules. We’d have to talk to the forger and work out a deal, but it could be worth a try.”

  “How would we even do that?” asked Trypp. Motega knew he couldn’t help himself. He loved working the angles and doing the unexpected, and while Motega appreciated that planning was necessary, he loved being in the moment, but for Trypp it was the other way around.

  “I’ve given it some thought. Purely hypothetically up ’til now, of course,” Neenahwi continued. “We can’t simply go through the Mountain Gate. That would raise too much suspicion, and the dwarven guards might not let you in even if I vouch for you. But I do know of another way to access their city, a tunnel on Mount Tiston. Little more than an air vent, but used in the summers for the drake hunt. It’ll be lightly guarded, but it could be dangerous. The climb down is difficult, and there may well be beasts living in those caverns.”

  “Could you take me, Lady Neenahwi?” asked Mareth. “I’d risk it. Folstencroft, you should inform Lady Grey I’ll be gone for a few days. Let’s work on the plans now, and then we leave at first light.”

  “Wait a moment, Mareth,” said Alana. “This is not part of the plan.”

  “I know. But you said it yourself. We’re behind. And we need something big if we’re going to catch up. I think we need to risk it. Can you and Petra keep everything moving here?”

  Alana looked at Petra, who shrugged. “Yes, of course. I guess we need to roll the dice.”

  “Exactly, Alana! We’ll go, too,” said Motega, excitement building in his gut to get out there and do something more than talking. He checked his comrades. Florian was nodding. Trypp rolled his eyes and shrugged. That settled it. “We’ll organize what we need.”

  The circle of stamped-down vegetation was some fifty feet across, four-foot-high blades of Bhiferous grass surrounding it, named after the great roaming beasts that grazed these lands and supported the way of life of his people.

  A single stone sat in the middle of the clearing and on it, cross-legged, was a man, naked except for cropped trousers and a falcon sitting on his shoulder. The tall blades of grass waved in the wind and billowy clouds swept over the pink sky faster than was natural. All was quiet. The wind made no sound through the grass. The insects, birds, and other beasts didn’t stir so much as a chirrup.

  Motega sat on his stony perch and breathed deeply. This place didn’t smell of his homeland either; the rich earthy smell of fertility was absent. All he could detect was the long-faded residue of acrid smoke and fire.

  The tall grasses parted in front of him and a large plains wolf entered the clearing. At the shoulder, it was as tall as a man, and it held its head proudly high, but the fur, so shiny grey in places, was matted in others around weeping wounds.

  The wolf took four long, slow steps and stopped in front of Motega. Behind it appeared two more wolves, and then four more, and the movements of the grasses indicated many more waiting behind. The other wolves in the clearing were as tall as the first, but they showed no visible signs of injuries, and their pelts were streaked with white.

  Seven pairs of yellow scouring eyes assessed the seated man, but no growl or snarl interrupted the silence. The falcon spread its wings and shrieked welcome to the other noble beasts.

  Motega had been here many times before. He knew he was dreaming. Or he was at least asleep, but this was still real. The wolves shimmered in front of him, grey and yellow, blurring and stretching upwards to leave seven men and women standing before him.

  They, too, were naked, standing tall and proud, long hair hanging down to the smalls of their backs. Their bodies were adorned with a variety of tattoos, monochromatic scenes of hunts or battles etched in red into their skin. The figure closest to Motega, the wolf that had first entered the clearing, was still burdened with slashes across his torso and arms. His face was uninjured though, strong jaw and broad face, with a nose, broken in the past, above a smiling mouth of sharp predator’s teeth. To this man’s left was another man, visibly related in features but standing a foot taller and broader in the shoulder. This man walked to the fore.

  “Motega, your ancestors greet you.” The tall man’s voice was deep like a well. “Your people still crave vengeance.”

  “Greetings, my father’s grandfather,” said Motega, meeting the man’s gaze. Though he didn’t enjoy these conversations, he knew there were forms to follow. “Elkin, do you have wisdom to share with me?”

  “Our people are gone. The other tribes of the Missapik are dead or enslaved or fled like deer. These outlanders, the men and their demons and the hooded ones move west to continue to conquer. They rape our land and steal our future. And you are playing games.” Elkin stood with arms crossed and brows furrowed, well-experienced in chastising children.

  “Chief Elkin, I am one man. What can I do? What you tell me burns my soul every day. And one day I will bring honor to our tribe.”

  “Grandfather, you are hard on him,” said the wounded man.

  “You are soft on him, Sharef.”

  “Please, let me talk.” Elkin nodded, and so, Sharef continued. “Greetings, son. Did something happen to your hair?”

  Motega unconsciously reached up to rub his hand through the short hair on his head. It felt like the fur of a rabbit.

  “Hello, Father. It is good to see you. There was an accident.”

  “Never mind. It does grow back,” he said, smiling. Motega had only fuzzy memories of his father from when he was alive, most of them from a distance. He had recently realized he spoke with him more now that he was dead than he did when alive. “You have seen your sister?”

  “I have father, and she is strong. She reminds me of mother now. You cannot visit her still?”

  “No, we cannot penetrate her dreams.”

  “I don’t understand. She would have been chief when you stepped down. You should only be able to visit her.”

  “I know, son. We do not know the answer, though some have ventured theories.” He turned his head and looked at a naked woman standing inside the circle. “Maybe her magic disciplines have taken her from us. In any case, we know she is important. You both alone are formidable. Together, you could move the stars. You have not asked, but I have wisdom for you, too.”

  “What is it, Father?”

  “Follow your instincts, Motega. In kindness or ill. You are my whirlwind, and you will heal me. One day.”

  A tear welled in the corner of Motega’s eye. “Thank you, Father. Thank you all. I will try.”

  Chapter 26

  Spelunking

  Dawn was beginning to break over the city as the party departed the coach house of the Royal Oak. Steam rose from the puddles of overnight rain due to the early morning heat, the humidity adding a closeness to the air unmatched by the empty streets.

  Neenahwi had managed to meditate for a few hours back at her tower before meeting again, and she could see the tiredness in her companions from their late-night preparations. Motega and Florian led the way through the Red Gate at the end of the Lance, Mareth and Dolph following, and Neenahwi, Trypp, and Jules’s stable master bringing up the rear.

  Inhabitants of the Narrows and Four Points were beginning to move about in the emerging daylight. A poor bird needed to start the search for a worm early. Neenahwi’s companions would go unremarked unless Mareth were going to be accosted by fans of his singing, but Neenahwi was concerned she could be recognized by the guards at the Cripplegate. So, she pulled up the hood of her robe and moved her horse close
r to Dolph in front, hoping to be hidden by the men around her.

  The Curtain Wall was soon behind them—with hardly a second look by the guards at the gate—and they flicked at the reins to bring the horses to a trot on the road already occupied with travelers seeking entry into the city. In fact, the stable master was likely to get much more attention on his way back to the city later, leading six tacked-up horses without riders, but it was a problem he didn’t seem unduly concerned about.

  Their route took them west from Kingshold for five miles before Neenahwi joined her brother at the head of the party to lead them off the paved road and up into the foothills of Mount Tiston.

  The green hills dotted with sheep and goats were a pleasant accompaniment to the ride, her brother thankfully not wanting to engage in conversation. She could hear Mareth chattering behind her, first with Dolph, and after his lack of reciprocity, finding a more fertile partner in Trypp. But as long as she left enough space between herself and the others, she could enjoy the birdsong.

  They kept their distance from the few farmsteads, following deer paths through the grass, steadily rising up and back to the east as the morning aged.

  Like a pustule on the fresh face of a maiden, the mountain erupted from the land, grasses giving way to rocky, bare earth, shrubs scattered about the landscape. From here, the journey would prove too difficult for the horses. Loose footing and the incline would make it a better match for ponies or mules, but Neenahwi was grateful the horses had borne them so far.

  Encumbered by their packs, weapons, and coils of solid rope, they set off on foot as the sun reached its peak. Florian offered to carry her line for her, and though Neenahwi would have resisted in the past to demonstrate her strength, she was happy to see him lift her load. She flashed him a smile, touched his arm in thanks, and continued to lead from the front.