Kingshold

by D P Woolliscroft

  Florian was mostly unhurt from the fight of the previous evening, but Motega was showing signs of some stiffness. But at least his head was still on his shoulders.

  When he had the bright idea to run after the Juggernaut, Neenahwi had run across the buildings on the opposite side of the street, half wondering what her maniac brother was doing and half wanting to see what help she could provide. But it had all moved so quickly.

  She’d hesitated initially because she didn’t want to harm the rebels being carried by the Juggernaut, remembering the terms of their agreement with the forger, and then, all of a sudden, the statue had been about to squash Motega before she could do anything. In truth, she’d also felt quite drained from her exertions beforehand, so it was a massive relief when the Juggernaut had stopped with seconds to spare, Trypp succeeding in his mission.

  It had taken them and the guards just a few more minutes to subdue the remaining conscious rebels, the fight going out of them once they’d seen the Juggernaut stop in its tracks, and Florian bat a few of the quarrels out of the air as he had approached them, swords in hand.

  Trypp had appeared from the tunnel where the rebels had come, dragging an inert dwarf behind him. This one was dressed in robes like others of the priesthood, Trypp pulling him by the feet with the dwarf’s head bouncing along the ground, the robes unfortunately gathering up around his chest and exposing his arse.

  The tall black man had a big grin on his face, likely enjoying moving around again after more than twenty-four hours waiting in a bolt hole for the attack to occur and for the rebels to go past him in the tunnel. His cue to sneak down to find the ringleader, hoping there wouldn’t be any further guards. They had all been lucky the coast had been clear, and the priest was deep in a trance when Trypp closed up behind him and used a handkerchief soaked in chloroform to knock him out.

  The dwarves had been joyous to have the situation resolved. Neenahwi had never taken the dwarves for great huggers, but she had more than a few embraces from men and women alike as their sons and daughters were declared safe and sound and locked away in the cells for a while so they could have a good long think about what they’d done.

  She had struck while the iron was hot, as the dwarves themselves liked to say, and called the forger to assemble the council and discuss their petition. Twenty clan leaders met with her and the forger, and now twenty clan leaders, fathers and mothers of large families, stood with them at the Mountain Gate to Kingshold.

  It hadn’t been easy to convince them, even though their gratitude was deep as their mines, but the forger was true to his word and called them to stand together. She wasn’t sure whether the forger was supporting them because he’d taken a liking to Mareth, or whether he was doing it because she vouched for him, but at this point, she didn’t care.

  The gloaming of Unedar Halt gave way to the blazing sun of the surface, and Neenahwi had to shield her eyes as they adjusted. The dwarves all around her wore their spectacles with colored lenses, as was common when they ventured above ground. Those glasses capped off their appearance, adorned as they were in their most beautiful armor and carrying their ceremonial maces and small chests with the required gold. She wondered if the guards were going to buy the explanation of them all having ceremonial maces.

  The forger and Neenahwi in the lead, they marched out into the clear ground and across to the guard tower marking the entrance to the palace grounds. Standing on this side of the tower were less than a dozen figures she couldn’t make out, the sun was on her face, and they were in the shadow of the tower. She could see a commotion on the top of the tower, calls of alarm and confusion.

  As they approached she could make out the figures in the shadows, Mareth, his bodyguard, and Trypp, whom she’d asked to sneak out and send word during the night, accompanied by a handful of guards dressed in the house uniform of Lady Grey. Mareth, flanked by Trypp, walked to meet them in the open space. He didn’t look in good shape either. He walked with a limp, favoring his right side, and he had a stitched wound on his chin and above his eye.

  “Good morning, Master Forger,” Mareth said in greeting as he shook the dwarf’s hand. “And Lady Neenahwi, thank you for bringing these fine friends on a wonderful day like today.” He was trying to be jovial, but Neenahwi could sense a simmering anger under the facade.

  “Lord Bollingsmead,” said the forger. “The council listened, and we’re here to lend you our support, for good or ill.”

  “What happened to you, Mareth?” she said.

  He shook his head and didn’t comment. She looked to Trypp and raised her eyebrows questioningly.

  “Probably a conversation for later,” said Trypp, “but you’re not going to like it. Not one bit of it.”

  “I think we should be getting along, don’t you, Lady Neenahwi?” said Mareth. His bodyguard signaled the other guards to flank the procession from Unedar Halt. She nodded, and they closed the distance to the tower when an order to halt came from a figure running across the nearby palace courtyard.

  “What’s going on here?” said Captain Grimes. “Who’s in charge and who says you can just waltz into the palace? Oh, it’s you again,” he said to Mareth. “Guards!”

  “I would be the one in charge here, Captain,” said Neenahwi, stepping in front of the Bard, so she was clearly visible. “These are my guests, and we’re going to meet with my father.”

  “Lady Neenahwi, I didn’t see you there,” said the grizzled old soldier, softening somewhat. “Of course, you can go and visit your father, but they can’t be walking in here all armed up.”

  “Oh, you’re mistaken, Captain,” she said with a straight face. “These are not vicious studded metal clubs they carry. No, they are ceremonial maces. It is a grave insult to ask a clan leader to give up their ceremonial mace.”

  “Ceremonial. Mace.” Grimes gave this some thought. “Right. I actually meant those guards. They’ll need to either stay here or leave their weapons at the tower.”

  “Lord Bollingsmead, I think you can have your men remain here. We’ll be quite safe. Captain, you may escort us to my father’s apartment.”

  Neenahwi didn’t stop for a response from either of the two men. Things were too complicated for so early in the morning, and she wished to get this over with and have a chance to rest.

  From the clatter and sound of boots on gravel, the rest were following behind her as she led the way. Of course, she didn’t need Grimes to show her the way to where the wizard lived. She’d spent nearly half her life living in the palace, but having palace guards walking with them would hopefully stop any more unfortunate interruptions.

  The palace gardens were beautiful at this time of year, the scent of snapdragons and jasmine filling the air, fountains and bubbling streams calming her nerves.

  At least until she walked right past a thin shadow of a man, hair now more grey than black, who had evidently been expecting her to stop. She heard him trot to catch up with her.

  “Lord Hoskin, fancy seeing you here,” she said.

  “Yes, how surprising to see me in the palace, Lady Neenahwi.” She noted how his tone had become much more acidic in the past few weeks. Neenahwi sensed the influence of her father rubbing off on this one. “What are you up to?”

  “I’m just going to see my father.”

  “With a score of dwarves in tow? For what purpose?”

  “Lord Chancellor, I’m becoming short on patience. That’s what happens when I exert myself and don’t get enough rest. But I still have more than enough energy to shut you up if need be. If you want answers, then you can follow along and observe, but I have no interest in explaining myself to any who ask.”

  He gave her a second look, and then stopped to let her walk on ahead. She heard him greeting the forger behind her and was grateful for a few moments of peace before they reached their destination.

  She strode into her father’s sitting room ahead of the rest of the trailing parade, expecting them to wait to be announced or ushered in. J
yuth was sitting at a table eating breakfast, later than usual.

  “Ah, daughter,” called Jyuth, “you’re back. How did it go?”

  She walked over and grabbed a sausage from his plate. Food was a good substitute for sleep or meditation at times like these. “Good,” she mumbled between bites, mouth full as she spoke, “I’ve got some visitors for you.”

  “Do you now? Haven’t even finished breakfast, but I suppose that will have to wait. Breakfast was late, can you believe it?” He looked incredulous. “Place is going to the dogs. No Alana again this morning, either.” He rose to his feet and stretched, a few miscellaneous joints cracking as he did so. “Let’s go out there and see them.”

  Neenahwi grabbed a slice of fried black pudding and ate as she walked alongside her father, out into the gardens abutting his residence, to meet the small crowd. Jyuth walked over to the lead dwarf and grasped his hand in both of his.

  “Master Forger, it’s good to see you.”

  “Master Jyuth, it’s always a pleasure. Though not as pleasurable as visits from your daughter.” The dwarf gave a big smile, and the two old men embraced. Jyuth moved to shake hands and greet by name each of the other clan leaders who had accompanied them, and he nodded to Hoskin, Grimes, and Mareth. Neenahwi noticed Motega, Florian, and Trypp standing to one side. Her brother looking as much like a teenage boy in trouble for climbing the wrong trees as he used to when he, too, lived in these apartments and was caught doing exactly that. Jyuth saw him, walked over and took him into a bear hug. The wizard whispered something into her brother’s ear she couldn’t hear before shaking the hands of each of his friends.

  “So now we’ve got all of the pleasantries out of the way, what’s all this?” Jyuth was interrupted by the sight of four men striding across the lawn toward them. “Well, well, it’s all go here today. Eden, what are you doing here?”

  Mareth visibly prickled as he turned to look at the nobleman walking across the grass like he owned the place already. The bard’s hand moved to his blade, but his bodyguard held his arm. Neenahwi began to realize that once she had this situation dealt with, there were probably going to be other messes to address. Was there any chance of retiring with her father, she wondered?

  “I’m here to observe what’s going on, Lord Jyuth,” said Eden, coming to a halt between the dwarves and her father, slightly off to one side. Behind him stood an armored knight, seven feet tall with a long sword strapped to his back. “And I’m ready to put a stop to anything untoward if needed. I almost didn’t make it here. The city is even more unruly than usual today.”

  Hoskin was standing close to her, and she saw him call Grimes over, a look of exasperation on his face, and ask him to have someone find Penshead. It seemed the lord chancellor was having one of those days, too.

  “Well, you’re free to observe, Eden,” said her father, “but I’m the arbiter of fair play in all this. Don’t forget it. Now, Master Forger, what has brought you and the council to see me today?”

  “Master Jyuth. In line with the proclamation announcing all those living within three leagues of the palace of Kingshold, who own property and are heads of their households, we’re here to cast our votes in the election for lord protector.” Each of the clan leaders pulled purses from the chests they carried, bulging with coin. “And we all have a thousand gold coins to prove our worth.”

  “Outrageous!” bellowed Eden. “These are dwarves! They’re not part of the realm.”

  “Now, now, Eden, a man of your age must take care of the balance of his humors. You are going decidedly pink.” Her father looked as if he was enjoying riling Eden further. “The rules are clearly laid out as the Master Forger described them. Unedar Halt is definitely within three leagues of the palace, and there’s a long history of our people having agreed to common policy around such things as trade and working together in times of war.”

  Eden looked like he had something stuck in his throat. He fiddled with his buttons to free the top one. “Well, those gold coins are probably not even crowns. Let’s see them.”

  The forger clenched his teeth at the insult and dug into his purse for a wide, gleaming gold coin, as big as the palm of Neenahwi’s hand. “These are our gold coins. Pure gold, not mixed with copper. And they’re bigger than your crowns. Two of these would be equivalent to ten of yours, but still, we each brought the requisite number.”

  “See, Eden. Everything is aboveboard,” said Jyuth. “Bring me the gold, and you shall have your demons.”

  Mareth hadn’t said a word since Lord Eden had arrived. His eyes flicked between the procession of dwarves handing the chests of gold to Jyuth and the nobleman in front of him.

  Soon, her father was twenty thousand gold coins richer. Jyuth gestured in the air and clapped loudly twice, a pointless display of showmanship as far as Neenahwi was concerned, but her father had his ways, and twenty small pink humanoid creatures appeared on the ground in front of each clan leader.

  “Take these pyxies with you, and before the solstice, tell them for whom you wish to cast your vote. I can assure you, your vote will be tallied fairly,” said the wizard.

  The forger looked around at the other clan leaders, many of whom were visibly uncomfortable about being so close to the creatures that Neenahwi thought looked like shaved rats.

  “We will not allow any demons, even ones as small as these to enter our halls,” said the forger. “We shall vote now.” Each dwarf knelt in front of their pixie and said, “Lord Bollingsmead,” and the pyxie disappeared in a little puff of acrid smoke.

  Now, Mareth smiled. He smiled and limped over to each of the clan leaders, shaking their hands and giving his thanks.

  “Two nasty surprises in one day, eh, Lord Eden?” said Mareth. “I’m sure seeing me alive was quite a shock.”

  “I don’t know to what you’re referring, but I’d tread lightly if I were you.” Eden was close to purple now, and the big knight clanked a half-step forward to stand ahead of his lord.

  “Of course, that’s what you would say, but you better be ready for the consequences when I win,” goaded Mareth, all eyes on him and Eden. The mutual disgust almost tangible.

  “Don’t kid yourself, lordling. You’re still going to lose. Even with your stunted little friends.”

  Neenahwi, Mareth, and Trypp escorted the dwarves back to the Mountain Gate and said their goodbyes, thanking them again for their help. Motega and Florian had remained behind to talk with Jyuth.

  After seeing Lord Eden firsthand, the dwarves had seemed even more pleased with their decision to throw their lots in with Mareth. The forger was particularly incensed by Eden’s parting comment and had to be restrained from going all ceremonial with his mace. Once the doors had clanged shut, Neenahwi stopped Mareth and Trypp from walking directly back to the palace.

  “So, tell me what’s been happening. What happened to you, Mareth?” she asked

  Mareth was still quite tense and wasn’t the talkative individual Neenahwi had met recently. The silence stretched to the point where Trypp felt he had to fill it.

  “From talking to Jules, it seems like it’s been all go the last few days while we were underground. He’s apparently the new savior of the common people after the rally the other night,” Trypp pointed a thumb at the bard, “and then last night, there was an assassination attempt.”

  “What? Targeting you, Mareth?”

  “Yes. In the dead of night, he came. Apparently, he’d been undercover, staying at the inn for a week. That’s how I got these,” Mareth said, pointing to the wounds on his face, “and this,” rolling up the sleeve on his left arm to show a bandage that seeped blood through the bindings from wrist to elbow. “And I’d be dead if it wasn’t for Alana and Dolph.”

  “Where is Alana?” ask Neenahwi. “My father hasn’t seen her this morning.”

  “She’s back at the Royal Oak,” said Mareth. “She was gravely injured. She attacked the assassin when he had disarmed me. He tried to cut her throat. She lost a lot
of blood, but if the blow had been an inch higher, she’d be dead already. But she’s still asleep, and the doctor doesn’t know if she will recover.”

  “Foolish girl. Brave, but foolish,” she said. “Take me to her, and I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Wait,” interrupted Trypp. “There’s more you need to know. Tell her, Mareth.”

  Mareth again was silent, looking up at the mountain and not meeting either of their gazes.

  “I’ll say then,” said Trypp. “When we were coming up to the palace to meet you, Mareth gave another little speech. He clambered onto a cart near the gate to the Inner Circle and sang a song of how Eden had tried to have him killed to whoever was standing around. A couple of score of people were probably there when he began, and by the time he finished—folks had been coming out of wherever they were—there were a couple of hundred. All baying for blood.

  “And here’s the weird part. I wanted revenge, too. When he sang, I could feel it. In my bones. In my heart. Like I needed to do something about it. And those people, they all ran when he finished, stopping to tell others. The news will have spread like wildfire, doubling and tripling in the telling.”

  Neenahwi considered the bard, eyes narrowing. “You were at the Bard College. Do you know of the song weavers?”

  “What’s a song weaver?” asked Trypp, looking at Mareth and Neenahwi in turn.

  “A song weaver is a bard whose words spin enchantments,” she said, not taking her eyes off Mareth, looking for a tell to give him away. “They’re rare. Hasn’t been one in generations.”

  Mareth regarded her in return, face impassive. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Like hell, you don’t,” she snapped. “You have a responsibility with a gift like that. There’s going to be fire tonight if you don’t do something about it.”

  “So, what?” said Mareth, steel in his voice. “Let there be fire. Let the nobles be scared for once. Let them see what it’s like to live in fear every day. They deserve it.”